Becoming Tomorrow
by Cr1mson5
Summary: Ever wonder exactly how the Titans Tomorrow came about? What could've turned a group of teenagers into hardened killers by age 28? What brought their dictatorship down on the western United States? Precisely what this story is about…  AU
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own the Teen Titans. Otherwise, I wouldn't need this disclaimer.**

**Author's Note: This is my speculative origin for the Titans Tomorrow in their first appearance, roughly issues 16-19 of the current Teen Titans series. Any discrepancy with later-revealed information or "continuity" (which is relative, anyway, since we're dealing with a possible future here) is purely the result of my having **_**not**_** read the last appearance of the Titans Tomorrow and is, therefore, entirely my fault. But you knew that.**

**Rating: T for violence, character death, and some language**

How do you forget where you've come from for a full decade?

Nobody knew the answer to that question better than Tim Drake. He couldn't really say why or how he did it. Perhaps it was to protect himself or his team. Perhaps it was just too painful to remember.

Or, perhaps, although he never said this…perhaps he didn't try to remember because he knew he'd hate himself if he could remember what he used to be.

He shook his head at the thought, as if to push it away into the cold, star-sprinkled darkness. It was a frosty autumn night in Gotham City, one of the coldest he'd ever felt. But he ignored the bitter wind on his exposed cheeks, which were already creased with worry lines accumulated over ten years of stress. He refused to acknowledge the chill that seeped through his body armor, his cape and cowl, to settle on his skin. He did not listen to the part of him that wished he could wear a coat or jacket of some sort. Those thoughts did not belong in that night, the night he would finally end her reign of death.

He hated her, as much as the first Batman hated the Joker. But he only hated her for everything she'd taken from him.

High above the streets, out of the reach of the blazing lights of the still-bustling city, he crouched in waiting. Superman chattered away on the other end of the line, but Tim didn't listen to what he was saying. Conner was a good teammate, a good asset to the Titans, and certainly an advantage to them all what with his strength and abilities, but sometimes, Tim thought the guy talked too much for his own good.

Although, sometimes, Tim also thought about the time when Conner's talkativeness was the only reason Tim hung around the tower. In fact, many times, it was the only reason why Tim had remained Robin despite the losses he'd suffered. In some ways, Conner served as the biggest reminder of how things used to be, because he was the only one of the Titans that could constantly make Tim stop and think about the past.

The past…

Involuntarily, Tim's hand moved to the TZ99 holstered at his left side. As his gloved fingers closed around the weapon, a feeling of sickness welled up in the pit of his stomach. He recognized it as revulsion—revulsion at himself, from the part of him that was still stuck ten years in the past. But he quickly drowned the feeling in the sense of satisfaction that came from thinking of tonight's mission. This had been going on far too long for his tastes; it was about time somebody ended it, and since the GCPD showed nowhere near the amount of competence needed to complete the job, it was up to Batman to do it for them. He wouldn't pretend not to enjoy holding the gun to her face, pulling the trigger. He wouldn't pretend to regret it. She had gone far enough. She needed to be taught a lesson.

That one little part of him still chastised his methods as he followed the GCPD to the site of her latest crime. He squelched it yet again. He had no time to be bothered with petty child's ethics, no time to think back on the days when he would've been horrified to even touch a gun…no time to be anything except the person he'd become.

Still…if he thought hard enough, he realized that he hadn't completely forgotten where he'd come from all these years.

If he thought hard enough, he could still remember how he'd gotten there, all ten years of the whole sad story, start to finish.


	2. The Breakup

**TIM**

"We're…we're not seriously breaking up the team, are we?" I demanded.

Bloody and broken, the Teen Titans—or, rather, what was left of them—huddled in the main room of Titans Tower. The Crisis was over, but the casualties were just starting to pile up. During the meat of the fighting, we were all so busy worrying about how we'd make it through the next hour that we didn't bother to keep a list of the people we'd lost until we went back once we were safe to find the bodies. So many people just kept turning up dead and missing, and the lists were just getting longer and longer. It was disturbing, the number of current and former Teen Titans on either list.

Cyborg had decided that he'd had enough of it. He said that, rather than lose more team members, we would just disband the team.

That was bad news for the rest of us. Cassie, Conner, Bart, Mia, and I were especially crushed. For me, the Teen Titans were everything. They were the only friends I had. If I couldn't join up with them again, what was I supposed to do? I was just a stupid kid back then. I couldn't see the bigger picture yet.

"Yes, Tim," Vic answered solemnly. "We are."

I ran a grimy, bandaged hand over my face in frustration and disbelief. The Teen Titans had been going strong (unofficially, at one time or another) for nine years at that point. To disband them right when they needed each other the most—when _I _needed them the most—was practically sacrilege. Not to mention the emotional effect on everybody.

"Yeah, okay, so we lost a few people," I was saying before I could stop myself. "But that doesn't mean we should just—"

Vic whirled on me, suddenly furious. "We didn't lose just _'a few' _people," he snapped. "We lost half the damn team! Look _around _you, Tim! This isn't even a good portion of what the Titans used to be." He shook his head. "Look, I know what this team means to you, and I can promise you, it means all that and a thousand times more to me. But I have to do what I have to do to protect what's left of it."

"Cyborg—Vic—"

"_Robin."_ His tone made me stop cold and stare hard at him, incredulous and a bit intimidated. He _never _called me Robin around the tower, when it was just the Titans and we didn't have to worry about anybody overhearing. It told me a lot, but mostly that he was deadly serious. "Drop it," he advised venomously. "The Teen Titans are over."

And with that, he walked out. He just walked away from all of us, left us to fend for ourselves after the worst battle we'd ever seen. Maybe it was his mistake, maybe it was ours. I don't really know, and I didn't really care. After that, we all followed his lead. We packed our stuff, whatever we had there, and left the tower for good. We walked away, too, and none of us looked back. I tried, but I forced myself to keep my eyes forward, on the future. It was best for everybody, I told myself.

But from that point forward, the Teen Titans were officially no more, and I didn't quite know how to deal.

**CONNER**

The Titans' dissolution hit us all hard. But I think Tim and Mia took it the hardest out of our little group of five. They were absolutely devastated. For them, the Teen Titans had been more than just a team full of friends; it had been their support group, their escape, and their place to go when everything else sucked majorly and they needed time away. To have that ripped away just when they needed it the most…that must've hurt even more than finding out part of your DNA comes from your mentor's worst enemy.

After what happened, we changed into our civilian clothes and went to hang out at our favorite restaurant in town. We'd haphazardly piled our bags into the trunk of Tim's car so we didn't have to worry about lugging them around with us. After that, we drove away from Titans Tower for what we were all sure was the last time. None of us spoke until we pulled up at the restaurant, and that whole conversation only consisted of Tim curtly announcing, "We're here," and slamming the car door as he climbed out with the rest of us following suit. He led the way in without bothering to hold a single door and sat down at a table at the back, beside a window, without even so much as a glance at us to see if we liked it or not. What can I say? Tim was a pretty decent, levelheaded guy, but when he started throwing a temper tantrum, you could count on all traces of common courtesy vanishing into thin air.

We were all too stunned to order anything except various drinks. Cassie and I both got a Dr. Pepper; Bart got some coffee; Mia had a Sprite; and Tim, of course, ordered lemonade. I asked him if he wanted me to get him something fizzier, to perk him up, but he just shook his head.

We sat there in the silence for the longest time after our drinks came, listening to the news. It was all just bad news, constantly repeated over and over again by different reporters on different news shows. By the time somebody finally spoke up to break the silence, I was about to explode if I had to hear one more time about the "Crisis relief efforts" or the "missing and dead heroes who contributed so valiantly to the cause of our protection." Without realizing it, I'd clenched my fist on the table and was about to squeeze my glass in.

Cassie's hand slid onto mine, instantly relaxing me, and she said, "I…I never thought this would happen. I never thought this day would come."

Bart shook his head slowly, too slowly for somebody like him. "He actually did it," he murmured, still somewhat in shock. "He actually broke up the team."

Mia downed the rest of her Sprite and added, "I knew something like this would happen if I tried to join a team. I just knew it."

"I could've done something more," I growled. "I should've. I could've stopped this from happening. I could've—"

"_Enough," _Tim snapped, "all of you. It's over, it's done, there's nothing any of us could've done to stop it or change it, that's _it_. _End of story_." Then, he seemed to realize how harsh his tone was, collected himself, and sighed, rubbing a purple bruise on the side of his face in exasperation. The next time he spoke, his voice was much calmer, less raging and more hurt. "I—I'm sorry, guys." My eyebrows shot halfway up my forehead. Tim hardly ever apologized and actually _meant _it. "It's just…alright, don't tell anybody this, okay? 'Cause if you do, I'll have to hurt you." He sucked in a deep breath and said the words so fast that I would've had a hard time understanding him if we didn't hang around Bart so much. "The Titans are the only friends I have. Back home, in Gotham, well…I don't get along well with the other kids. You guys understand me much better than they ever could, so I clicked better with you. And I can't always just, like, hop on a plane and fly to Metropolis or San Diego or Central City or Star City or wherever. So I don't know what I'm going to do about seeing you guys anymore." We all stared at each other, at a loss for words. We all felt it, too. And we had no idea what to say to console one another.

**CASSIE**

After the Titans broke up, I tried to go back to my normal life. Really, I did. It was just…it was just so _hard_, you know?

And it didn't help that I was left to defend Diana's territory alone. After the Crisis, she and a lot of the others went on indefinite vacation, and we could either go along or stay. Most of the Titans, at least us new kids, had chosen to stay behind, but nothing, not even that, could deter our mentors from going away for a while. It wasn't like I didn't think I could handle it, just that I didn't want to have to handle it alone. At least with the Teen Titans still active, I could've called in some backup, right? But then, of course, they broke up. And then we were all kind of on our own after that. And with our mentors off in some distant, foreign place, we had to find our own backup and support someplace else.

It was hard, like I said. I was working almost full-time to keep my turf safe, sometimes skipping out on school or friends or my job to protect my city. I'll tell you, I was exhausted. I was starting to think about hiring a hand or three to help me out. Mercenaries were crawling all over the place, and they didn't really care who hired them or for what, so long as they got paid to do it. Then everybody's happy.

Anyway, really the only person I kept in contact with was Conner. We maintained our relationship despite the distance between us and all our new responsibilities. Bart, Mia, and Tim, however…well, I was lucky if I got to hear from them once or twice a month or through Facebook or something. I'll admit it; I let us fall out of touch with each other. Mainly because I was upset that they didn't do more to ensure the Titans stayed together somehow. We all just dropped everything and ran back home after the team's dissolution, not bothering to join up again, Young Justice-style. And then, of course, everything else that happened kept us really busy, so it wasn't like we truly had time to call each other up, anyway.

The one time that Tim bothered to come and check up on me, see how I was doing, he was dressed like a soldier. He wore a black domino mask instead of a green one, there were tight fingerless gloves now covering his hands, and he'd gotten rid of the cape. His camouflage pants were tucked into black, leather knee-high boots, all polished and shiny and professional, and he sported a long-sleeved red shirt under a vest full of ammo and supplies. He'd kept the R insignia on one side of the vest, as well as a golden, more traditional-style Bat-utility belt, but now a holster hung from it, complete with a military-issue firearm inside of it. I remember looking him up and down for about five minutes before remarking, "Since when did you join the Army?"

Tim smirked. "Ha, ha," he said sarcastically. "I actually _did _join the Army."

I gaped at him. "You did _what?_"I shrieked.

"Do you remember me telling you about the Veteran? You know—that military guy that was chasing me in Bludhaven?" I nodded. "Well, he offered to let me join his paramilitary team, and I said I'd think about it. I figured, after Batman quit on me, it was a safe enough bet, so…" He shrugged. "I joined up." I was only half-listening, though. My eyes were fixated on the pistol hanging from his belt. He saw me staring and held it up, handling it like an expert, which made me think he knew more than he'd ever let on to any of us, let alone Batman or the Titans. "Oh, are you worried about this? Don't worry; I never load it. It's a last resort only, and that's final."

I shook my head at him in shock as he shoved the pistol back into the holster. "Tim…you joined the Veteran?" I repeated.

"Yeah, Cass, I did. It's not like I had much of a choice. I mean…Robin, alone, in Gotham City, especially at a time like this, is going to get killed within five days of working solo. I've survived before, but, this time, I might not be so lucky. And, like it or not, I don't know everything. So, I have to learn from the guys who do. And a lot of the guys who know a lot packed up and trekked halfway across the world, so I had nobody else to turn to."

"You could've turned to me."

It came out sounding much colder than I'd meant it to. Tim picked up on my tone immediately, and his face hardened. He swallowed and began fidgeting with his left glove, stretching it and pulling at it to make it fit more comfortably, or go farther up his wrist, or probably just to buy time. "Forgive me for saying so, but you didn't really make yourself available when I needed you." His tone was just as sharp as mine had been, but without looking at his face, I couldn't tell if he'd meant it. I think he knew, and I think he wanted it that way. He cleared his throat, continuing, "It doesn't matter now. We've both got our paths, but that doesn't mean we can't help each other. Cassie, I have military contacts that aren't afraid to get in here and help you out. I'll have to run with the Veteran's main team, but I can send people to back you up if you want me to." He held out his hand to me, just like a scene in a movie. "Just…please, just let me do this one thing for you. I want us to still be friends when all's said and done."

I stared at his hand for the longest time. I wanted so badly to take it, to say yes and join him, but I knew I couldn't. Because, unlike a movie, there would be consequences; the military's tough, but they're not trained to deal with the same things I am. How many husbands, fathers, brothers, sons, and friends would get killed because I couldn't handle Diana's legacy? I wouldn't do that. I would learn to stand on my own against them, but I wouldn't endanger others' lives in the process.

I shook my head. "I'm sorry, Tim," I said, my voice surprisingly even. "I can't do that."

He dropped his hand, looking more hurt and alone and angry than ever. "I don't believe this," he replied. "First Batman, then Nightwing, then the Titans, and now _you're _abandoning me, too? No way. No _frickin'_ way is this happening to me!" Tim's voice had risen to a shout, and when he realized it, he ran a hand through his hair, taking a deep breath to collect himself. "Look, I'm going to support the relief effort in Vlatava this weekend, with the Marines. They need more special forces in there to protect the survivors. You're either in this, or you're not. Support me or don't—your choice. But I'm going. And nothing is going to stop me, Cassie, not even you."

"Tim, you don't have to go."

"Yeah, actually, I do."

"Tim—"

"Goodbye, Cassie." And he was gone.

The only thing he left behind was a note with the name of the shuttle he'd be flying on. I considered going to see it off, but I didn't find enough time. Later that week, I came home to my mother crying in the living room. When I asked her what was wrong, she told me that the shuttle had been shot down over a war zone in Vlatava, and there was no sign of the survivors other than two transmissions, one sent before the crash and one sent afterwards. Early reports speculated that they had been captured by enemy forces, possibly killed.

The last semblance of what the Teen Titans had been died with that news.


	3. Separation

**BART**

I won't pretend that we actually stayed in touch all that well after the breakup, but after Tim's disappearance in Vlatava, we really stopped talking to each other. It just didn't feel right somehow, without him there to intrude on our calls and tell us all we were idiots before laughing it off five seconds later and insisting he was only kidding. If the dissolution of a second team made the rest of us more uptight, it made Tim less tense. He went out of his way to smile, to put on a happy face, to joke around and act like nothing was wrong when we all knew he was super-stressed and had his hands completely full. Looking back, I think he was trying to keep us close. I don't really blame him; after the closest thing he had to a family since his dad's death deserted him, we were all he had. That was why it'd kind of hurt when I heard from Cassie that Tim had joined up with the Veteran. I guess I just wanted him to be _my _friend, _my _teammate, _my_ Robin, nobody else's. I didn't like that he'd found a new group to run with, much less the fact that they'd probably get him killed faster than it would've ever happened with us.

The thing that really made me uneasy, or disturbed me, I guess, was how quickly Cassie and Conner could dismiss it. When Tim went missing, it was like they weren't even affected at all. Cassie's response was something like, "We all knew the risks, especially Tim. He got himself into this; it's his choice." Conner wouldn't really say much of anything about it, but I could tell he wasn't too bent out of shape over it. It might've just been because he was confident that Tim would make it out okay, but I wasn't sure.

Me, on the other hand, I was freaking out. I called everyone I could think of for updates about every day of the week, demanding to know if they'd found him and where he was and if he was alright and if they needed me and if there was anything else I could do and talking for what felt like hours before somebody finally told me that they still knew next to nothing about it. The final transmission sent said something about "enemy fire", which basically meant—to me, at least—that they'd been shot down by Markovians. After all, they had been sent as relief aids for Vlatavan civilians and soldiers after the Markovian invasion. People argued that we couldn't be sure, since it wasn't specified in the transmission and they'd heard nothing since, but who was to say it _wasn't _the Markovians? I heard they could run some awful prison camps, not unlike the Nazis.

I tried to put that out of my mind, though, and focus on the problems at hand.

I volunteered to go find them. I meant it, too, really, I did. But I found out that, as time went on, I became less and less concerned about Tim and the Veteran's team and more and more concerned about keeping Central City safe. After the Crisis, Wally was MIA and Jay couldn't run anymore, so I was the only Flash left to protect everything my grandfather had watched over in his time and Wally and Jay in theirs. Not that I couldn't handle it; I mean, when you're a speedster, time doesn't really mean anything, so you can kind of do whatever you want in an hour and still make it to dinner on time. It was just that...I was used to having backup, you know? I was used to being able to call in Wally or Jay to help me out when I was getting my butt kicked. With me being the only speedster left in the whole city, maybe even the whole world, I couldn't do that anymore. It was all on my shoulders, and I had to saddle the weight with as much grace, dignity, and finesse as my predecessors.

Yeah, thanks, Crisis. We all love you so much for ruining our lives.

The only person I really, actually continued to talk to on a regular basis was Mia, and one morning, I went on a run to Star City to see her. She, thankfully, didn't have to go on her own too much. She had Roy Harper and Connor Hawke to fall back on for assistance when she needed it, and she was doing fine for someone who was going through what she was. I guess, in a sense, she was worse off than any of us, what with her HIV-positive status confirmed and all. She was living her life knowing she would die young, childless, and unmarried—practically the opposite of what most people wanted to do. But she was happy where she was at, and she wouldn't change it for the world. Or, at least, she said that she wouldn't. I never believed her…never have, never will. And I stand by that, even if I'm saying it to her face.

**MIA**

I always liked talking to Bart, as opposed to talking to any of the others. Cassie always seemed too superior, Conner too distracted, and Tim always too distant, trying too hard to express emotions he wasn't experiencing within himself. Out of all of them, Bart had always felt the most…_real_. It was like he had some power over me where he could just walk up, ask, "What's up?" and I'd open up to him, because his words were never just common courtesy, like what I'd get with Tim sometimes or what I could squeeze out of Conner if he paid enough attention to me. Bart was always sincere, always genuinely cared about what I had to say and was truthful when he responded to me about how he really felt. That was why I liked talking to him more than anybody else.

The day that Bart came to see me in Star City, I was taking an idle stroll through the park, enjoying the foggy, cloudy weather, when he zoomed up in front of me, grinning as I'd never seen him grin before. "Hey, Mia," he greeted me cheerily. "What's up?"

I couldn't stop the snort that escaped me. "You're chipper," I remarked.

Bart cocked his head in perplexity. "And you're not?"

"Not really much to be chipper about around here," I muttered.

Bart's smile immediately collapsed into a concerned gaze, and he motioned to a nearby park bench. "Let's sit down and talk about it," he suggested, but it was really more of a gentle order than anything else. So, I followed him to the bench and sat down next to him. He sat forward with his elbows resting on his knees, gazing at me with interest, eager to hear what I had to say. "So," he began, "what's up?"

I shrugged. "Same thing that's up with everybody else," I responded, slouching down a little farther in my seat. "Bad guys are taking advantage of the post-Crisis mess, looking for an opportunity anywhere they can find it to wreak havoc and raise hell. They'll do anything if it means they'll get their money or their goods." _Or their girls, _I added mentally, but didn't voice it. "Occasionally, a cop will work up the guts to make an arrest, but nowadays, most everybody's too worried about who's working for whom to do anything without thinking about the consequences. They've already gotten threats, everybody who's trying to clear up the streets, saying that retaliation will be severe if they interfere with their operations, so that's pretty much scared the law enforcement and city council into staying unseen. It's pretty much just us now, keeping people safe and the bad guys in their places. But with Ollie out of commission for the foreseeable future, I don't really think we're as organized as we should be. I mean, don't get me wrong, Roy and Connor are great heroes; they just…need leadership lessons."

I was quiet for a moment before I continued. "You know, Bart, I figured this would happen. I figured that the Crisis would pretty much make Star City unbearable, so I was really looking forward to having the Titans standing behind me, ready to pitch in and lend a helping hand when I needed them. After what happened with the team, and with Tim gone, I…I don't know what to look forward to anymore, to tell you the truth. I just…I don't know what to look forward to anymore."

Bart and I sat there together on the park bench in the silence for the longest time before either of us said anything at all. For somebody so fast, it took him a long time to process something like that. At last, he nudged my arm, and I turned to him. "Just 'cause the Titans are over doesn't mean we have to be," he said. "We're still friends, Mia, after everything that's happened. Doesn't that tell you something? It should tell you something."

I didn't have an answer for him. I just stared numbly at him, waiting for him to keep talking.

"If the Teen Titans were all that held the five of us together," he reasoned, "then, when the Titans broke up, all of that would be over. I wouldn't be here, talking to you. Tim wouldn't have called every weekend to check up on us all. Conner and Cassie wouldn't have stayed together. And even when the stress and the responsibilities started to catch up with us, we still tried to keep in touch with one another. Look, my point is that the Titans didn't constitute our friendship. _We _did. It was us, all us, and nothing else. That's the most important thing, Mia, at the end of the day, and it's all that matters. And you can _always_ fall back on that—no matter what."

That was probably the deepest thing that I'd ever heard come out of Bart Allen's mouth, and the words actually made sense, too. He was right, you know. The Titans didn't hold our relationships together; our relationships added life to the Titans. I nodded to Bart, signifying that I understood what he was telling me. "Don't give up hope, Mia," he advised. "There's always a way to get it done. And I'm sure that everything will work out, with the team, with our friends…and with Tim." He stood up, sighing. "I've gotta run. See you!" And with that, he was gone, nothing left but a vaguely bright-red blur racing off into the distance, cutting a wake in the fog as he ran. I sat there on the bench after he'd gone, my hands folded in my lap, thinking back on what he'd said. It made sense. I got it. And for the first time in weeks, I was at peace.

**TIM**

This is how it happened to me.

The team and I were on the shuttle, headed off to Vlatava for the relief effort. We had five U.S. Marines on board with us, making the total number aboard at the beginning of the flight thirteen. They were there strictly as escorts, they told us, to help us through the tougher parts of the war zones. Not that we couldn't handle it ourselves, but we had to get through checkpoints with relative ease, and that wouldn't happen without the regular military personnel backing us. I was vaguely disappointed that none of my friends or so-called "family" came to see me off with the Veteran, but I got over it quickly. I couldn't focus on anything but the mission for now.

The seven-hour flight got boring fast, so we talked and told jokes and stories to pass the time better. I'd only had about five minutes to get introduced to the Veteran's team before we were hurried onto the shuttle, but I could still recognize them thanks to Batman's training. Clipper, the sniper, and Connelly, the front fighter, talked nonstop. Scarlett, a silent, red-haired young woman a little older than me, stuck close by Veteran the whole time, never speaking or even laughing at all; Garrett, a burly bear of a man, piloted the shuttle, and Parson, a slight, lean martial artist, told all the jokes and all the funniest stories about past experiences in the military. The five Marines participated as much as possible, conversing with them and relating their own narratives. And then there was me, just sitting there, not really doing anything in particular and trying kind of hard not to be noticed. I actually succeeded, for the most part, until Clipper leaned forward in his seat and poked my shoulder hard. "What's wrong?" he asked me.

I kept my face turned to the window as I answered, not wanting to look at the twelve pairs of eyes now turned to me. "Just…thinking," I replied. I was proud of myself. I was actually telling a lie that wasn't totally a lie.

"About…?" Clipper pressed.

I shrugged. "About how my life caved in on itself in a whole six months, mostly; but, other than that, I'm not thinking about much."

Clipper and Connelly glanced at each other incredulously. "What do you mean your life 'caved in on itself'?" Connelly repeated. "Things couldn't have seriously gotten _that _bad for you." Then he looked around and asked, "Could they?"

I still didn't turn away from the window, just kept my eyes trained on the water flashing by below us. "Let's just say that everything I cared about, or thought I cared about, ended up only being a temporary deal. Now that the deal's off, I don't have anywhere else to go but here, with you guys. But, hey, I don't regret being here."

"Well, but you've got to have somebody to turn to," Clipper insisted. "Don't you have a home?"

I shook my head.

"Don't you have a family?"

I shook my head again.

"Don't you even have any friends?"

I thought about it for a second, but then I shook my head a third time.

Parson whistled low in amazement. "Lone ranger, huh, kid?" he teased. Clipper, Veteran, and Scarlett glared at him. "Sorry," he apologized. "I just meant…pretty lonely life you lead there. Why did you even accept Veteran's offer? I mean, what was in that for you other than dying before you turn twenty?"

"That's enough, Parson," Veteran warned, his deep voice reverberating off the shuttle walls. "Don't trivialize the boy's losses. He's suffered enough." I finally looked away from the window and met Veteran's eyes, and I saw in them genuine sympathy for me. I could sense that, to him, we were all more than just a bunch of soldiers under his command, but especially me. I could tell that I was something of a son to him.

"I took up the offer because I lost everything," I explained, sitting forward with my elbows on my knees and my hands clasped, despite the discomfort of my seatbelt digging into my shoulder. "Batman, Nightwing, and the others deserted me after the Crisis, and the Teen Titans are disbanded, and things in Gotham are so unbelievably hopeless that I just—I need to build something back up for myself. I'm not going to just sit here and wallow in self-pity in the ashes of everything that was when I can spend my time constructing something new to fill the void." I was careful not to say "something new to replace it all", even though some part of me thought that. _No, _I told myself firmly. _Nothing can replace Mom and Dad and Stephanie and everything else that I lost. But I can certainly make it hurt less with something just as good._

I was brought out of my reverie by the sound of someone clapping, and I realized it was Scarlett. Then, slowly, applause spread through the shuttle, until everyone except Garrett (who had to fly the thing) was clapping at what I'd said. Veteran seemed proud of me, and Clipper congratulated me, "Well said, Robin, well said."

Parson interjected, as if to have the last word, "Hey, don't worry, kid; no matter what, you've got all of us here to help you through. You can count on that. Well…unless you're infected with an alien parasite that eats vital organs. Then you're on your own."

I shook my head at him, actually chuckling a little bit, before an explosion from behind me made me throw my arms over my head and get as low as possible.

Garrett swore loudly from the cockpit. _"What the hell was that?" _I bawled at him.

"Are they shooting?" Clipper demanded.

Garrett was already on the radio, sending out a distress call. "Mayday, mayday, this is United States Paramilitary Unit V-26," he barked into it. "We have been exposed to enemy fire and are going down! Repeat, _we are going down_! Approximate position is—"

The minute I heard the words "we are going down", I was pressed back against my seat, pulling my seatbelt as tightly around myself as I could. I started ordering the others to do the same, to make sure they were fastened in well for what would certainly be a hard crash. We were past the ocean now, so all that lay below us was miles of tree-filled Vlatavan countryside. I was already analyzing exits, possible escape routes through the forest, forming a plan before we had to go into action. One quick glance over my shoulder confirmed that the people behind me were hurt, unconscious, or worse. From what I knew of shuttle crashes, we only had a forty-five percent chance of survival. _Please let us be in that forty-five percent, _I prayed.

Glass sprayed into the shuttle from the shattering windows and windshield, grazing my skin and leaving behind dozens of stinging cuts. Sparks flew and metal crushed inward towards us as the shuttle slammed headlong into the ground and skidded, bouncing off trees and rolling to a stop somewhere in the woods.

When I opened my eyes, Veteran had dragged me out and was leaning over me, concern written all over his face. "Robin," he called softly. "Robin, talk to me."

"Holy _crap_," I coughed out, raising a hand to rub my aching forehead. "What just—what was—oh, gosh…" My gloved fingers slipped on my forehead, the stickiness from the blood on my skin making it difficult for them to find a good grip for massaging. The bright sunlight hurt my eyes, but I managed to squint against it enough that I could look around and assess the damage. I counted only three of the Marines who'd been on board at the start, and Garrett was nowhere to be seen, as well. I turned back to Veteran. "What happened to—?" I began.

"Garrett and two escorts were killed in the crash," Veteran cut me off abruptly. "Four more may still die. You'll live, though; just a little banged up is all you are. We were lucky, Robin. Most of us were in the forty-five percentile range."

_Barely_, I thought, but I decided against saying it. Right now, the last thing anybody needed was negativity. I could plainly see that my plan I'd made earlier wasn't going to work. The four most seriously wounded couldn't be moved for fear of worsening their injuries, and, watching Clipper recite coordinates and team statistics into the somehow-still-working radio, I could tell that Veteran had already opted for us to stay here, anyway. Besides, thinking about it, that was probably the better option, considering that all our weapons and supplies were stashed in the shuttle. I got shakily to my feet and turned in a slow circle, surveying the area. "Who shot us down?" I demanded.

As Veteran gave some official response, a movement in the brush caught my eye. I locked my eyes onto it, watching carefully. I could just make out the figure of a man coming towards the crash site, carrying what looked like a machine gun.

"_Get down!" _I yelled, tackling Veteran to the ground as bullets tore from the trees. Everyone else who could still walk followed suit quickly, ducking and covering their heads with their arms.

"We're under attack!" Connelly bellowed. "Get through the trees _now_!"

We all took off in different directions, leaving the radio and the crash site behind. However, we'd underestimated their numbers. No matter which way we went, there were at least six men, maybe more, waiting for us, outnumbering us. I ran as hard and fast as I could, my legs pumping and carrying me far, but before long, I could hear the sounds of the others as they were taken. _Please, please, please, let _somebody_ get away, _I found myself begging inside my head. _We can't _all _get caught._

A strong, muscular arm whipped out of the trees, catching me in the nose and knocking me down. I came up swinging, and the man was tied to a tree in an instant. His buddies began pouring out of the woods, surrounding me, and I had no choice but to turn off all thought and go into Bat-mode. The fight only lasted about five minutes before there were two of the strongest guys holding me down on my knees, one hand planted firmly on a shoulder and the other roughly gripping a wrist to keep me on the ground. Another man walked up in a Markovian military uniform heavily decorated with medals and stars, so I assumed he was probably a general or commander or something. He pulled out his pistol, cocked it, and touched it lightly to the bridge of my nose, and I understood enough Markovian to know that he was threatening to kill me if I didn't cease to resist. I didn't let that stop me, though. I kept struggling to get free, jerking at the men's hands as I tried to get up and run. The other man lowered his gun, grinning a little as if he were impressed. When I glanced down at his gun hand, he was holding the pistol by the barrel. Then the butt of the gun smashed into my temple, knocking me cold.

After that, I was told, they proceeded to load me and the rest of the survivors into the backs of their convoys, which took us off to prison camps in the woods. I would remain a prisoner of war in Vlatava for two years. I was sixteen years old.


	4. Bad Friends?

**GAR**

The months and years following Tim's disappearance, observing everyone's reactions, including my own, made me wonder…were we bad friends for not really worrying about him all that much? I wanted to go and try to get him back, but I kept holding myself back from it to give him a chance to do it himself. I mean, I'd known Tim for only a fraction of the time I'd known Dick, but I could already tell he was a lot like his "older brother" in of the fact that they were both resourceful and resilient. And Tim, in the short time we'd been Titans together, had gone up against plenty of people who were bigger and stronger than him. Granted, he'd lost sometimes, too, but he'd always just shook it off and said, "Well, next time, I'll know." I guess, to most of us, it didn't really seem like Markovians, big and strong as they were, would be that much of a challenge for him to get away from on his own.

Still, I'd been around him enough to know that, when others were involved, Tim wouldn't make a move to get himself out unless he got them out, too. I didn't have too hard of a time imagining him just sitting there, letting himself rot, because he couldn't think of a way to help _everybody _escape.

He always was a stickler for fair treatment, that little guy.

And he _was _a little guy, when you really thought about it. Sixteen years old, and he was already diving headlong into war zones and getting captured and getting shot and all sorts of crap that shouldn't happen to a kid that age. He was at a disadvantage, anyway, being so much smaller and lighter than anybody else. He was strong for his age, sure, but it wouldn't be _that_ hard for, say, a Special Forces operative to just pick him up and snap his neck like a twig…

Sitting in what had been my room in Titans Tower, I shook my head to clear away the thought. _There's no way that's what happened, _I told myself sharply. _Tim's too smart to get himself killed. Besides, if they wanted him dead, they would've just blown up the shuttle, not shot it down. _Then a terrible thought entered my mind, a thought I couldn't shake for the life of me. _What if…what if they…_needed_…him for something…and it was something terrible? What would we do then, huh?_

I buried my face in my hands and sighed, thinking back on the boy. He hadn't deserved that. None of us had deserved anything that had happened since the Crisis, least of all him and Raven. I wouldn't speak for myself, for the sake of not fostering arrogance, but those two? They'd needed the Titans, if for nothing else, then to keep out of trouble spots like this. I couldn't help but imagine what it might've been like if we hadn't split up, you know? I couldn't help but think that, if I'd done something to keep the team together, this wouldn't have happened. Tim wouldn't be out there, somewhere, needing our help and getting nothing, and the new kids wouldn't be scattered yet again, and none of us would be mad at each other, and—

"There was nothing you could've done."

The familiar voice, calm and soft and soothing, made me turn. Raven stood in the doorway of the room, gazing at me coolly, her violet eyes locked onto my own green ones. She still wore her trademark cloak and dress, but I could sense that something was different about her. It was almost as if, since the Crisis and the separation, she'd become so much more closed-off than normal. She was almost back to the way she'd been when I first met her, when she would say nothing of her own emotions and instead act as a beacon for others'. She would never talk about it, of course, but I could tell. I knew Vic had hurt her when he broke up the team.

She sat down beside me on the floor, keeping her eyes firmly on mine. "There was nothing you could've done," she repeated, placing a gloved hand on my shoulder. "There was nothing _anybody_ could've done. Victor made his decision, and we all know how hardheaded Victor can be. There was no stirring him from this; I could sense it. And Timothy…" She glanced down so briefly that I wouldn't have noticed it if I'd blinked in that instant. "You are right about him. Timothy did not deserve this, and our prayers are with him always."

I let out a breath, frustrated at I don't know what. "Yeah, but prayers aren't going to bring him back home," I retorted.

Raven cocked her head. "Timothy is alive," she informed me, "and he will come home, in time. But…" She trailed off, averting her gaze yet again. I waited for her to say more, but she didn't. Instead, she picked restlessly at the carpet, as if unsure of what to say.

She'd almost pulled a whole thread out of the floor before I prompted, "But, what?"

She licked her lips, and I didn't need to be empathic to know that she was uncomfortable with the situation, with the conversation going on. There was something she didn't want to tell me, because she didn't want to have to see—or feel—my reaction to her words. At last, though, she came out with it. "It has been…many weeks," she began slowly. I nodded, wanting her to continue. She seemed to become braver and took a deep breath. "I…I can feel his soul, wounded and nearly broken. He's changing. They're changing him, making him into something…"

"Evil?" I supplied.

"Frighteningly effective," Raven corrected me. "If you still wish to look for him, you may. I will not stop you. However, I will warn you: be very cautious. The Timothy Drake you may find will most likely not be the Timothy Drake you once knew."

Listening to what she said, I realized what she meant. In a roundabout way, she was telling me I was right. They were hurting Tim so that he'd do something awful for them. Then, I knew I was a bad friend, because, suddenly, I didn't really want to try and find him anymore.

**RAVEN**

I will not say that I did not attempt to deter Garfield from searching for Timothy. That, indeed, was my intent all along in speaking with him. Just as I could sense Garfield's despair from across the empty tower, I could sense from halfway across the world that Timothy had been resigned to an inalterable fate, and no amount of search parties or investigations could bring back the boy we'd all gotten to know. That Timothy Drake was lost forever, replaced by…whatever they were turning him into in Vlatava. Besides, I had sworn to him that, should anything happen to him, I was to ensure that others would not attempt to rescue him. "I can save myself," he had said. And I had believed him. With all my heart, I had believed him, and it was that belief—that promise—that drove me to say what I did to Beast Boy.

For all my empathic powers, I could not fully understand why Gar had elected to stay in Titans Tower, long after everyone else had left it. His bed was the last to be disassembled, his things the last to be packed. For whatever reason, he had clung to the tower as if his very life depended upon it, as if it were the only thing keeping him from falling apart. And it probably was. For many of us, the Teen Titans had meant that we were all a part of something more important than just ourselves, just the mission. We were a part of other people's lives in a way that not many are blessed enough to be. Gar had grown used to the Titans, used to being someone of significance, someone of tangible _value_, in the eyes of someone that he could look at as a younger sibling. Four someones, if I must correct myself. He had finally realized that his place in the world was with the Titans—until the dissolution that had devastated us all.

He would never say it, of course, because he never wishes to seem arrogant or self-centered in the eyes of his peers. But he was so busy watching everyone worry about the others that it seemed to him that nobody worried about him.

But he was wrong. I worried for him, especially when I could feel that morning in the tower that he intended to help in a search for Timothy. It saddened me, sickened me, even, that he would waste his time like this.

"How do you know all of that?" he had inquired, the burning need dissolving into heavy dread and reluctance. "How do you know what's happening to him?"

"I established an empathic link with the existing Titans, before the team was disbanded," I explained, attempting to sound as full of good intentions then as I had been when I had done the thing. "If I try hard enough, if I stretch my soul-self out enough, I can feel you all, wherever you are, whatever is happening to you. Through the link, I can feel his frustration, his anger, his pain, and I worry. He is strong, true, but no person can come back from something like this unchanged."

Gar nodded, letting out his breath, and turned to gaze out the window for a while longer. I knew I had done my duty to Timothy, and Gar would no longer try to find him. I doubted that he could have, anyway. He was so very far away, and with so little evidence as to where he had gone or where they had taken him, locating him before something horrible happened was almost impossible.

"So, Raven…" Gar's voice brought me back from my reverie, and I looked at him expectantly. "I, uh…I was going to go back to the Doom Patrol. After everything that's happened, it's really the only place I've got left to turn to. I mean, back before the Titans, I was on the team, and…don't tell anybody I said this, but I actually _enjoyed_ it. It was great, being with people who made me feel less abnormal than usual. And despite all the crap we've been through, all the times I swore I hated them and they kicked me out or died or whatever, I…I've never really felt like there was a better family for me. Second to the Titans, of course, but, still, I'm going back. I figure I've got to do _something _now that the Titans are obsolete." He was quiet for a moment before nudging me gently in the shoulder. "What about you, Raven?" he asked. "What're you going to do now?"

I averted my eyes to my hands, which were folded neatly in my lap, desperately seeking a convincing answer. I finally decided upon what was mostly the truth. "I will be leaving soon on a spiritual pilgrimage," I announced. "I…no longer belong here. As you said, the Titans were my family, as well, and without them, I do not know where to go. Also, there is a…change coming over my physical form. I have sensed that I am dangerous now. I must find myself yet again, for my sake and the sakes of all the heroes."

Gar's green eyes were centered on my face, holding much more intensity than I was used to, as he searched my features to see if I was telling him the truth. "Want to tell me what 'change' is coming over your physical form?" he prompted.

I shook my head firmly. "No."

His voice sank to a softer tone and volume, just a hair's breadth above a whisper. "What're you hiding from me, Raven?"

Without warning, I stood, smoothing out my cloak and dress. "I cannot say," I informed him, my tone business-like once again. "I must leave now. I wish you well with the Doom Patrol, and I sincerely hope that they do not also abandon you. Farewell, Garfield Logan, Beast Boy. Farewell…my friend." I nearly said _"my love" _also, but I held it back. He had no time to respond before I was gone, flying away to my own lonely little place quite some distance away from San Francisco.

_He knows…he knows…he knows…_

The words repeated themselves frantically in my mind, even as I struggled to shut them out. He could tell that I was keeping something from him. And even I was ashamed to admit it, but…I had not wanted him to know the change that came over me in those days. I could feel a deep, resonating anger swelling within me, rage at something that which I do not know. But it was not only rage, but avarice, and lust for destruction. I had known somehow, somewhere deep down in my heart, that this day would come again.

I was beginning to fall back under the influence of my father, Trigon. And I was powerless to stop the terrors that welled up inside of me.

**TIM**

I knew, from the moment I woke up in the camp, that the others would probably think I'd just get out on my own within a week and it'd all be fine. Not so, given a few different factors: 1) The Markovians had set up their camp in a high-end prison they'd forced all Vlatavan inmates and guards to evacuate. Now, the Vlatavan law enforcement officers and military would be preoccupied rounding up the inmates, leaving the Markovians free to take prisoners as they would; 2) they had the whole place so heavily guarded that I doubted I could even spit in the general direction of the barbed-wire fence surrounding it without getting shot in the face by a sniper I couldn't even see; and 3) there was no way I'd spring myself without ensuring the others could follow. So, I was forced to sit there and take their torture for as long as I could without breaking.

And I'd heard about these guys before, so I had no illusions of holding out for long. They could break _anybody._

When I awoke, I discovered that they'd separated the team into their respective appropriate groups. Apparently, Veteran's fame reaches all the way to Markovia, because he'd been carted off to max-security—or so they said. Clipper went with the snipers, most likely. But as for Connelly, Parson, and the remaining Marines, I had no idea.

Scarlett and I ended up together, in the group of "younglings", as they called us. These were the youngest soldiers out there in the field, guys and girls that were fresh out of high school and college. Kids, who had no idea what a war was really like. I was the youngest there, I could tell, but I was also the most composed besides Scarlett. Everyone else was already panicking, trying desperately to get out of the little cell they'd crammed all nine of us into.

As my eyes opened, a female voice warned, "Easy. Watch your head."

I lifted a hand to my forehead and realized that I could feel the skin under my fingers. My gloves, vest, and belt were gone, along with all my supplies and all my weapons…everything I could've used to get us out of there. I sat up slowly, looking around, and saw Scarlett next to me, her hand on my shoulder. "You took a nasty hit to the face," she reminded me. "Three times, might I add; not your best fight, Boy Wonder."

I ground out a humorless laugh and nodded in agreement. "So, you _can _talk," I mused.

"Yeah, go figure, huh?"

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

Scarlett shrugged. "Didn't really feel the need to," she replied nonchalantly, almost conversationally, as if we were anywhere but in a prison camp, about to start the biggest fight for our lives we'd ever faced. "Besides, you've got friends in some mighty high places. Powerful friends, too, aren't they? We'll be out of here in no time flat, guaranteed, right?"

I shook my head at her in dismay.

Her face fell, as if she couldn't believe what I was telling her. "You don't think so?"

"I know so," I said grimly. And I meant it, too. Unfortunately, all the biggest and best firepower—namely, Superman, Wonder Woman, various Green Lanterns, and the Flashes—had taken an undetermined amount of time off from hero work, so we could count them out of the search-and-rescue effort. I know what you're thinking. What about the rest of the Bat-family? Well, Bruce was gone, too, and without any Batman to track us down, we were majorly screwed beyond being screwed. Besides, since I was pretty sure everybody else was less-than-concerned about my escape, I seriously doubted a search-and-rescue effort had even been organized, much less sent out to find us. So, why even bother getting anybody else's hopes up just to have them brought crashing back down again? I wasn't going to give them any illusions that we were getting help when we very obviously weren't.

Eventually, some of the others calmed down and stopped blubbering and shaking at the bars of the cell, and we all just kind of sat there, feeling sorry for ourselves. Two guards stood outside the doors keeping watch over us, but not the same two guards all the time. They would come in shifts, relieving each other whenever it was time for a break for food or sleep. Food and sleep, however, were two things we did not get much of. The only morsels passed through the bars for us at any time were three loaves of bread for us all to split and one bottle of water that we all had to share, and any time we started to fall asleep, a guard would smash his gun or his billy club against the bars of the cage, making a loud, metallic clanging noise that would startle us all into wakefulness. I started to feel noticeably uncomfortable in the cramped cell, and I began to let it show, a first for me. I didn't like sharing such a tiny space with so many people my age (not all of them the same sex, either) for so long. The one window on the entire level, the one at the end of the hall, was in just the right position that I could see it, and I used it to gauge how much time passed. I counted the days by the sunsets, and when I'd counted five of them, they came to get us.

A different, larger group of guards came by and jammed a key into the door of the cell, unlocking it and swinging it wide open. By that time, we were so worn down that none of us thought a thing about pushing through and making a run for it. It was suicide, anyway.

A huge man squeezed his way inside the cell and roughly took hold of my arm, practically dragging me out into the corridor. The nine of us were hauled out, one by one, and forced down the narrow hallway with our hands clasped on the backs of our heads. I was in front, and one of the guards continually prodded me in the back with his rifle to keep me moving. I stumbled every time, but I didn't stop walking, knowing that the alternative would result in much worse than having a gun poking in my back every twenty seconds.

We were led into a mostly empty room that I guessed had been used for interrogations before, when the Vlatavans used the prison. The tiles that covered the walls and floor were an ugly shade of white that almost made them closer to cream-colored, splattered with stains of a suspiciously dark red hue. The fluorescent light fixtures illuminated the entire room, glaring off the single long metal table in the center of the room. Nine chairs were set up on one side, one for each person.

The guards violently shoved us down into our designated seats, snapping something at us in Markovian that I couldn't understand. My guess was that we were waiting for somebody, and whoever they were, they were taking their sweet time showing up. We sat there in the silence for hours with the bright light beating down on us, making our tired eyes ache and our sore necks hot. After a while, the exhaustion, coupled with the starvation and the discomfort caused by the intensely focused lights, started to get to us more than ever. Some of us would continually heave a sigh or two, and others massaged their already-throbbing temples. I crossed my arms and rested my forehead on them, letting out a deep, slow breath. _I'll just rest for a little while, _I thought. _I'll just close my eyes for…just a bit…_

A sharp crack of metal on metal sent a strong vibration through the table that made me jump so hard I snapped upright and rocked back in my chair. The same man who'd knocked me out in the woods stood before us, smacking a steel cane into the palm of his gloved hand. It might've just been the lack of adequate food and sleep, but I thought the implement looked strangely like a crowbar. _Crowbars and Robins don't mix well, _my mind pointed out, foggy from the five days I'd spent with little nourishment and next to no rest.

The man's footsteps rang out in the oddly quiet room like gunshots, one right after the after in a perfect slow pace. They stopped, directly in front of me, and it took me a minute or two to realize, through the fatigue, that he was staring at me. I let my eyes travel up his medaled front to his face, his unreadable, emotionless face. What did he want with us, with me?

Suddenly, he reached out, and with one deft motion, tore the domino mask from my face, ripping the dried spirit gum and, if I wasn't mistaken, a little bit of skin off the bridge of my nose and the corners of my eyes. The forceful move made my head swivel hard to one side, and I turned it back to the man carefully, attempting to keep my anger in check. I glared up at him as he snarled in English heavily accented with something between French and Russian, "We hide no secrets here." With a flick of his wrist, he tossed my mask over his shoulder, where one of the guards shot it in half while it was still in the air, leaving me now with zero protection for my identity.

The man paced the length of the table in front of us, his hands, still holding the cane, clasped firmly behind his back. "If I wished to know your identities," he assured us, "I would have already known them. Your names do not interest me. My only name that will interest you, and all you will address me as, is General, and what I am most eager to know is what particular set of skills each of you possesses. None of you would be here if you were not soldiers, yet I doubt that any of you, my little younglings, has yet had a single chance to fire the guns we confiscated from you. I would gather that almost all of you are American. Scanty training, at best, would be provided for ones such as you, but I doubt that we cannot rectify that."

"Nothing to rectify," I found myself mumbling.

General turned his cold eyes to me once again, and he leaned against the table as he stared me down. "You," he said after a long pause. "You were the one carrying the empty pistol. A TZ99, as I recall, and a fine weapon, but not a single round inside it…tell me, boy. Have you ever even fired one off?"

My eyes met his, and I was surprised that I could keep his steady gaze. "Yeah," I responded. "And every time I did, I thanked the heavens that I didn't turn into scum like you!"

The back of his hand impacted with my cheek in a hard slap that once again made my head spin to the side. General leaned in close to me, and I could feel his warm breath on my face as he hissed, "You will behave, and you will respect me, or I will not hesitate to kill you…_Robin_."

My face was turned back to him faster than I realized, and I was staring up at him in disbelief. "Yes, I know who you are, and I have heard of you, squire of the Dark Knight of Gotham City, New Jersey, and whatnot. A noble title, and a noble role, but nobility will not save you here. Ruthlessness will, and I sincerely hope that you have enough of it to survive, Boy Wonder." He took a deep breath and continued to address us as a group. "I cannot promise you that you will all survive your experiences here. Those of you who do not wish to cooperate with us"—a pointed glance at me—"will be handed over to those who do; and I can promise you this: that will be a painful death. Please, do smile, younglings, for you have the privilege of being inducted into the Markovian Special Forces Unit."

"When hell freezes over," Scarlett spat, earning her a backhanded slap, as well. I couldn't hold in my slight gasp of rage, and my hand shot out to clamp onto her shoulder protectively.

"Ah, so you care for her," General drawled. Then a serious, dark expression overtook his face. "You will watch her die, every last second of her worthless life."

I ground my teeth. _I'll die before I let that happen, _I vowed to myself. And I probably would, too.

"Welcome to mercenaries' boot camp, _children_." He said the last word with enough contempt to flood the room. He seemed to direct his next words right at me. "Today, younglings, you learn an important lesson. Today, my little ones…you learn to kill."


	5. Retirement and Breaking

**VIC**

I realized how upset everyone else was with me. I realized how much the Titans meant to them all. And what came to mind was what I'd said to Tim, the last day in the tower: _"Look, I know what this team means to you, and I can promise you, it means all that and a thousand times more to me." _And I'd meant that, all of it, everything that I'd said to him, to all of them. But, like I'd said, I had to do what I had to do to protect my teammates, my friends, my…my family. They weren't the only ones who'd had only the Teen Titans to count on. I did, too, and it dug a grievous wound into my heart to have to break up the team that'd been my only home, my only sanctuary, for four years. But sometimes, when you're the leader of a team, you have to make harsher decisions. You have to do things that maybe not everybody, maybe not even some part of you, agrees with, but it's only for the good of the team. If I hadn't broken them up, more of us would've gotten killed, and then where would we be? Besides, it was time for me to grow up and move on, become my own hero, my own man away from the group. I had to do some serious thinking, and it was thinking that, looking back on it, the Titans couldn't have helped. That told me that I'd made, or at least, thought I'd made, the right decision, and in any event, it couldn't have been helped. Maybe the Titans had been fated to break up, maybe not, but I wasn't going to let myself dwell on it anymore, not when people needed me.

I'd thought something like that would break a lot of friendships, but, surprisingly, it didn't. I still stayed in touch with all my old friends and some of the new ones, too. While I was keeping my social life in order, I was also keeping my other life in order by becoming something of a migrant hero, drifting from place to place and helping out where I was needed. And it suited me, the nomadic life, as I'd never really felt like I belonged in one place for very long, anyway. It was fun, in a way, seeing new places and meeting new people, despite if I had to punch those people's faces in. Traveling across the country, looking for new sights and sounds, new bad guys to stop, it almost made me feel…normal or more accepted, somehow, like I was a more serious hero now than I ever was before.

But, my actions were not without their prices, it would seem. I had the opportunity to help out several of my old Titans teammates, but none of them would say yes to my offers. Superboy and Wonder Girl flat-out refused, Kid Flash conveniently forgot to check his messages, Beast Boy claimed to have all the help he needed with the Doom Patrol, and Speedy made excuses as to why I couldn't come to help her. No matter how any of them said it, though, I could tell it was always just one big "no" with a capital N. They didn't want me there because they saw everything that was happening as my fault for breaking up the team. I could almost hear their thoughts: _If you hadn't done that…if we'd stayed together…_ And part of me said they were right. But I just kept rationalizing, telling myself that I'd had to do it, and it couldn't be helped. That became my mantra in those days, the days when I found it hard to get a hold of any of my old teammates. I sensed a deep amount of resentment among all of my former Titans partners, resentment and hatred and anger and a half a dozen other things that I never wanted to identify because I knew it'd just hurt to know people felt that way about me. Surprisingly, though, the mantra worked—for a while. After that, I could repeat it to myself all I wanted, but it'd never fix the fact that I wasn't nearly as well-liked or respected as before because of a single decision on my part that may or may not have led to all the horrible things that happened happening.

Despite all the troubles I went through from the others, there was always one person who was consistently there for me, no matter what, and that person was Dick Grayson. Nightwing had opted to take some time off after the Crisis. He'd needed it, too, considering how hurt he'd been. When I went to see him, four months to the day of Tim's disappearance, he was doing better, able to walk a little bit without the crutches and down to only a couple of headaches a day. He'd heard about what happened to his little brother and was not happy, but he knew there was really nothing he could do in his condition.

"Besides," he told me when I went to go visit him at Wayne Manor in Gotham City, "he's a fighter. He'll get out of there alive, one way or another, you'll see." Some part of me sensed that, when he said it, he didn't really mean it, and I could understand that. Dick and Tim had been close—really close. They'd practically been brothers before Tim was even officially Robin. I could tell that it pained Dick that he couldn't do anything for him, that he was beating himself up about not being able to help his little brother, but I didn't say it. It would only make matters worse for him.

I nodded, my eyes traveling to Dick's left hand, which rested on the edge of the armchair he sat in. Or, rather, they were drawn to a very distinct glint on his left hand, his ring finger, if I wasn't mistaken. And, sure enough, a golden wedding band was wrapped around it, brand-new and expensive-looking. He noticed me staring and smiled dreamily, raising his hand to admire it. "Who's the lucky lady?" I asked.

"Starfire," Dick said, still keeping his eyes on the ring. "She's so sweet, and she's just…I've just known her for so _long_, you know? I swear it's like she was made for me or something. I just…I can't imagine myself with anyone else." He dropped his hand, turning back to me and looking sheepish. "Sorry. I get sentimental sometimes, just sitting around here. But that won't last too much longer."

I laughed. "Let me guess—Kory's going to have you up and running around pretty soon, huh?"

Dick shrugged. "I suppose you could say that."

"She's bound and determined to help you get better, isn't she?"

"Yeah, that's why she's such a good wife. But she's not letting me do any of the packing, even though I told her that I can handle it myself. She doesn't need to do _all _the work for me."

I was immediately at attention. "What—what do you mean, 'packing'?" I demanded, stammering a bit. _No, _I thought. _This cannot be happening, not now, not when I need them the most._

Dick gave me a face like it should've been obvious, but he decided to play into my dumb act. "We're leaving, Vic. We're both retired. It's over for us." And then it was all I could do to keep from keeling over in a faint right then and there.

**KORY**

I'd been wondering when Victor would come by to see us. I'd heard that he'd been traveling a lot lately, going to different places to help different people. And as far as I knew, he was enjoying it, and he wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon. So, I had always known it would only be a matter of time until he visited us in Gotham City, and, therefore, only a matter of time until he knew about our retirement from the hero life. Well, our retirement from this world's hero life, at least, since that much was certain. Where we were going, we might've still been needed as Nightwing and Starfire; we weren't sure. We just knew that we couldn't stay on that Earth for long.

I had been upstairs at the manor, packing our things, when Victor stopped by. I couldn't stop, because we were on a deadline, after all, but I listened to their conversation. I know eavesdropping is equivalent to spying, but I couldn't help myself. Victor was one of my best friends, and I had to know how he would take the news. I went downstairs when he started to sound like he was about to pass out from surprise and shock. He turned to look at me when he heard me coming, disbelief and regret and sadness written all over his face.

"Is it true, Kory?" he demanded, sounding more hurt and broken than angry with me. "Are you really leaving?"

I nodded. "Yes," I responded, hating myself for making him feel so upset. But I had no choice, as he'd had no choice in dissolving the Teen Titans. "We…we have to consider our options, Victor. With Dick hurt and everything happening that has and will, we can't stay here and wait for things to get better for us when they clearly won't. We may have lost hope, but we still have our child to think about." I placed a hand tentatively on my stomach, which was still not yet bloated from the baby inside my womb. Victor seemed to understand the motion, but he still hung his head in defeat.

"So, then, what are we supposed to do without you?" he asked. "The last bit of what the Titans were is with you guys. If you leave, then how are we supposed to remember?"

"You will always remember," I reminded him gently. "There will always be the legacy of the Teen Titans in you, that much I can promise you. And…I must ask you for a favor." Without waiting to see if he would accept or even say anything at all, I turned back to the stairwell and called up it, "Rose."

I heard footsteps pattering down the hall, and Rose descended the stairwell at the summons. She had her snow-white hair pulled back into a ponytail, away from her single blue eye and the silvery patch covering the place where her left eye had once been. She brushed a few loose strands of hair from her face with the back of her hand and said, "Kory? Dick? I heard you call. What'd you need?"

I beckoned to her to come closer, and she came all the way down to join us in the study. I slipped an arm around her shoulders comfortingly, almost protectively. "This is Rose Wilson," I introduced her to Victor. "Dick just recently helped her break away from her father's influence. I don't think the best place for her to be is with us, where we're going when we leave. She needs somebody to aid her, to guide her into becoming her own hero. Could you do that for us, Victor?"

He pursed his lips, as if contemplating the choices, but he eventually gave a solemn nod. A smile broke over my face. "Thank you, Victor. You won't regret this, I promise you. Take good care of her; she's depending on you." I leaned down to give Rose a hug. "Listen to Cyborg. He's your mentor now, and he'll be there to watch over you and give you the tools you need to become the hero I know you are. Go get your things." And she did, and they left together, one of my oldest and dearest friends and the girl who was like a daughter to me even though I'd only known her for a little over a month.

When they were gone, Dick looked at me with sorrow in his eyes and on his face. "What if they need us when we're not here anymore?" he wondered. "What'll they do?"

I knelt down beside his chair, wrapped my arms around his neck, and kissed him passionately. "They'll survive," I told him, "because I know they can handle it. Tim will, too." At the mention of his little brother's name, Dick licked his lips and sighed deeply, averting his gaze to his lap. "Dick…you're not a bad older brother for not going after him. Do you really think that Tim would want you to swoop in and rescue him, anyway? You know how independent he is. He'd want to do it himself. Besides, how far do you really expect you'd get in this condition?"

"Yeah," Dick whispered. "I guess you're right." Then, in a louder voice, "Well, if you've got everything packed, then…" He eased himself up out of the chair, and my arms were under his before I knew it, supporting him as he tried to stand. "I guess we can go ahead and go."

"Aren't you going to say goodbye to Bruce and Alfred?" I asked, puzzled.

He shook his head. "They're away, remember? And besides, it'd make Bruce more depressed than he already is."

I didn't press the issue. Instead, I took our bags to Dick's car, got him inside, and then drove to the point where we'd be leaving from. It had been considerably difficult to find a portal into an alternate Earth, considering that what had been was presumed destroyed and we weren't even sure if any of the alternate Earths still existed, but Zatanna found a way for us. I preferred not to ask her how she'd managed to do it, because I'd found out long ago that asking magicians the secrets to their tricks—unlike stage magicians—usually led to finding out about them in an unpleasant way. I wasn't so sure I wanted to know everything Zatanna had up her sleeves; it would only make me want to kill her that much more. I'll testify to the fact, for the entire world, that I can't stand the woman, but she's good to have around in a crisis situation. As we departed from the car, me towing the bags and Dick hobbling along on his crutches, she asked hesitantly, "Are you _sure_ you want to do this? I mean…it's not exactly a one-hundred-percent safe bet you're taking, here."

I nodded once. "We're ready," I informed her brusquely. She shrugged, as if to say _"it's your funeral"_, and performed the spell, opening a portal before us. I let out a deep breath that I hadn't realized I'd been holding in, stuck close by my husband's side, and stepped through into another world, my new world…my new home.

**TIM**

The first four months I spent in the prison camp were pure torture, no other word for it. At the beginning, the pain I endured was excruciating, worse than anything else I'd ever experienced. But, over time, I became accustomed to the acrid taste of dried blood on my lips, the searing hunger that tore at my insides and made my intestines feel like writhing worms within my body. I got used to being pushed around by the guards, being bullied and pressed every day in my sessions with the General to kill, to murder innocent people. I learned to combat the fatigue that threatened to make me keel over like the rest at every hour of the day, the injuries and starvation that were like a sickness in of themselves. And gradually, I began to realize when the numbers of the people in the camp were dwindling, when a prisoner would go for a meeting with a Markovian officer and not come back again. The first month or so, I would watch it happen, or someone would point it out to me, and I would almost begin to cry with the sadness of it all, knowing that somebody had met their end. But, towards the third month, I didn't really see it like I used to. The death that surrounded me became a fact of life, just another thing to be expected, and I could pick out the weak ones, the ones who'd most likely get killed next. They never said they killed them, but we all knew that was what had happened to them all, the ones who went for a meeting and never came back. To tell you the truth, and I will admit to this, testify to it until the day I die because I know I can't deny it…I stopped caring. I stopped caring that people were being led away to die, that they were never going to go home and see their families again, and if they were lucky enough to survive to the next day, all I could say was, "Well, they won't last through tomorrow, that's for sure." At that point, the third month, I was so beaten down and worn and tired of it all that I just flat-out did not care what happened to anybody else except myself and maybe Scarlett.

Maybe they changed me faster than I'd thought. Maybe I started to get harder, colder, and a little less altruistic. Maybe I became a harsher person, a person that no longer minded the bloodshed that he was bound to be a part of someday.

Or, maybe, I just learned how to survive.

The only thing that kept me going strong was Scarlett's encouragement. It didn't matter how many times I'd be trooped out of our little cell only to be trooped back in a few hours later with a new batch of bruises discoloring my skin, she kept telling me that I was doing a great job and to just hold out for help. "Veteran's been in the military for years," she reminded me one night, as we all sat huddled together, glassy-eyed and sleepless because we knew better than to try. "If anybody can think their way out of this one, it's him."

I never told her, though, but I was starting to lose faith in the Veteran's ability to get us out of the camp, to keep his promise to protect me that he'd made when I joined the team. Somewhere into the middle of the third month, I knew when it was a new day when they'd come to get me for another session with General. The guards would march me down the hall into the familiar little room, and every day, he'd be waiting for me there, sitting at the head of the metal table. I'd be shoved into the seat at the opposite end, and then the guards would push in another prisoner, a different one every day, and sometimes even people I knew, kids from our cell. General would slide a gun, _my _gun, the one from my belt, across the table to me, and, instinctively, I'd slam my hand down on it to stop it, my finger sliding into the trigger. Then, General would say to me, "Here is the deal: you want to eat? Then you kill them." And he would point to the prisoner that had been brought in with me, and I would look at them, and look at the gun, and think of the food that would fill my aching stomach if I pulled the trigger…and then I'd hate myself for thinking that, and I'd slide the gun off the edge of the table and refuse. Then, when the guards came back in, they would "accidentally" hit me a few times, and then I'd be led back to the cell to spend the rest of the day.

Once every week, though, we'd be let out for "exercise". They would push and prod and threaten us until we followed them out into the courtyard of the prison, and there they'd parade us around in a circle, over and over again, for what felt like hours to our exhausted, broken bodies. It was on one of those days that I saw him there for the first time.

I had to wonder how long he'd been there, because he looked so haggard and bedraggled that he couldn't have been a new arrival. He looked so much like all the other men there, whiskers peppering his battered, unshaven face and his hair shaggy and dirty. But I still recognized the brown eyes, the strong jaw, the presence that seemed to instill hope and confidence in others' hearts through sheer force of will. I picked up my pace just enough to catch up with him, nudged him to get his attention, and muttered out of the side of my mouth, "What's up, Lantern?"

Hal Jordan glanced at me once, briefly, in surprise, but that was all the time he needed to recognize me. He swore under his breath. "Robin," he hissed at me. "I had no idea you were here, too. Everybody's been looking for you. Well…okay, yeah, that's a lie. But, hey, don't feel bad. Nobody's looking for me, either."

"Why do you suppose that is?" I demanded.

Hal shrugged. "Maybe they think we can handle it ourselves."

"Hm. Or maybe they're just too stupid to follow a cold trail." Hal bit his lower lip at the caustic remark, but he didn't comment on it. "So, what are you waiting for, Hal? Just use your ring and zap us all out of here or something."

"I…I can't."

If I screamed at him, we would've been caught and gotten punished for talking to people outside our designated groups, so I settled for a whispering, horrified, "What do you mean, 'you can't'?"

"Tim, they took my ring, and I don't know where they're keeping it."

"Probably in the same place where they're keeping my belt, I'd guess."

"Yeah, too bad we don't know where that is." I cast my eyes onto my feet, dismayed and upset and a million other things I'd rather not detail. "Look, Tim, I know you're disappointed. So am I, right now. But the most important thing to remember is that this can't last forever. People like Batman and Superman and Wonder Woman, they…they can't hide forever. They'll get tired of it. They'll come back soon, and when they do, they'll start looking for us. They won't let us die here, okay?"

"You say that like you don't think we can get out ourselves."

"Because I _don't _think we can get out by ourselves. Right now, our best plan, our best bet, is to keep resisting them. If we can hold out for just a little bit longer, they'll come to find us. Alright, sound good?"

I nodded. I said yes. But, in my heart, I knew I was reaching my breaking point already.

At the end of the fourth month, they'd worn me down almost completely. I was so weak and stricken that I doubted I could hold out much longer. I hadn't realized it'd be this bad, even with everything I'd read about these kinds of places. Scarlett and Hal did their best to make sure I kept up hope, but it didn't work. I'd seen most of the kids in our group slowly die of starvation, illness, or worse. The Markovians hadn't wanted to kill us all off at the start, because we were younger and had more potential, I guess, but now they were tiring of having to run in an endless circle of refusal and threatening and pain with us. So, they decided that the less of us there were to cause problems, the better. The group in our cell went from nine to four in roughly seventeen weeks, and I knew that other groups hadn't been that lucky. I was sick of being treated like an animal. I was tired of sitting in that little cell all day, wondering when I'd be the next to die, when they'd come to get me for one of the meetings that you don't return from. And it was starting to take its toll, and when they saw that, General had me brought for one last session.

We were in the same room, at the same table, and he did the same thing he always did, scooting the gun across the table to me. This time, when I caught it, my free hand was over my eyes, trying to blot out the bright light of the room. It hurt so badly, and I was so exhausted, that it just seemed like one more device designed specifically to cause me pain and nothing more. At this session, though, they filed in four people and made them stand against the wall. I could see them all clearly: Parson, one of the Marines who'd been our escort (probably the last one left alive), a man I didn't recognize—and Scarlett. I had to choke back a sob when I realized what they were doing. Now that they knew I was ready to wilt, they were going to use her against me.

General leaned forward across the table and ordered, "Kill them."

"No," I said firmly, more firmly than I'd expected to be able to.

General cocked his head at me. "Interesting little one, aren't you? You have already lasted four months. This is much longer than most can keep their heads before they crack. How much longer do you think you can go until you wear yourself out completely?"

"Don't listen to him, Robin," Scarlett called from her place in the center of the group. "He's just trying to get under your skin."

"You fancy yourself a true survivor, but you are nothing more than a little coward. You are afraid to do what is necessary to win, to gain the supremacy, the _edge_, you need to live. You think you can outlast the pain? I'm afraid not. There are many ways to die in this forest, hundreds, thousands, even. Do you think you can outrun them all?"

"Stop it," I whimpered, clamping my hands over my ears.

"Robin, he's just trying to get to you. Don't let him get to you."

"You will be silent!" he all but shouted at Scarlett, making her jump. Then he turned back to me. "What are you so afraid of? It will only take four tiny shots, and then you can nourish your body, heal your wounds. You can go free, if you wish. All you have to do is kill them."

"If you kill us, you'll be defying everything you believe in, everything you stand for. What would Batman say?"

"Batman. _Tch. _Your 'Batman' is nothing but a spineless wolf in sheep's clothing. If he is such a great hero, why did he not rush to your aid the moment you went missing, hmmm? Because he does not really care for you, _no one _cares for you. You are an outcast, an underling. Batman knows there are an infinite number of boys out there who are dying to be his sidekick, an endless list of young men to choose from. The loss of one Robin is no great casualty to him. You may believe him to be your mentor, your father, your friend, but he is none of these things. _He never cared about you_. To him, all you are is a living tool in his belt, easily replaced if broken or lost."

"Robin—"

I snapped.

A savage scream of rage tore from my lips. I bolted to my feet, knocking the chair over behind me, and aimed the TZ99. Four shots were fired off before I knew it, and then I was holding an empty gun in my right hand, staring incredulously at four dead bodies. My hand opened, almost by itself, as if it had a mind of its own, and the pistol clattered against the tile floor. I dropped to my knees, unable to comprehend what I'd just done. General stood over me, smiling down at me proudly. "There, now," he cooed, suddenly gentle. "Was that so hard?"


	6. Making Adjustments

**ROSE**

I'm not going to say that I was mad at Dick and Kory for leaving this Earth for a different one. If I were in their position, I'd probably do the same thing. Plus, with Dick hurt and Kory pregnant, she was right. They had to consider their options, and, at the end of the day, all they were really expected to do was what was best for them and their family. They couldn't stay. It was too dangerous.

But, still, even if they were leaving behind a ton of friends who would carry on their legacies, they were also leaving behind at least one person who still sorely needed them: me. Not to be selfish or anything, here, but I had been looking forward to training with Nightwing, saving the world with Starfire. I'd been thrilled to be something of a sidekick to the duo, only to find out that they weren't sticking around long. And it was all I could do to keep from throwing a screaming hissy fit of rage over the fact that they were going off-world—_permanently _off-world, might I add—right when I required their help the most. I'd just broken away from my father, Deathstroke the Terminator. I'd just gotten out of the haze he'd put over me through the drugs and the training and the _death_. I was…yeah, okay, I'll say it. I was vulnerable. I was lost. I had to have guidance. And the two people who could do it for me best were going away and never coming back? How was that supposed to be fair to me?

Despite all of that, though, I'm still not going to say that I was mad at them, because I understood their reasoning. It didn't take too long for me to realize that I identified with the purpose of their choices. It was just that there was still some part of me, some small, hidden piece of my heart, that childishly clung to the feeling of abandonment that I derived from their departure (or desertion, depending upon how you look at it) of this Earth, our Earth. And I think I liked having that little bit of me keeping it, deep down inside.

I always was one to hold a grudge.

I knew that Dick and Kory both trusted Victor Stone, a.k.a. Cyborg, but I wasn't so sure about partnering up with him. It wasn't really that I didn't trust him. Well…yeah, okay, so it kind of _was _that I didn't really trust him. I didn't know him half as well as I knew Dick, and even though I'd only known Kory for a very short time, I still knew her better than I knew Vic. When it came down to it, I just wasn't sure about him. I didn't know if he'd really take me on or if he'd just dump me the next chance he got and forget about me. After all, the last time we'd met, I wasn't exactly on my best behavior. Granted, it wasn't totally my fault, but, still, I wasn't the only one to hold grudges. What if Cyborg wasn't up to training me because he was afraid I'd go psycho again?

We rode in silence away from Wayne Manor, and it was an awkward, sigh-filled silence that stretched on and on and on until I felt like I was going to explode if nobody said anything. Worse, to cut the tension between the two of us, you'd have to take an axe to it about five _million_ times, and you'd still only get probably halfway through it. At long last, Vic took a deep breath and began, "Look, Rose…I know that we don't really know each other, and I know that you don't really trust me all that much."

_He's got me pinned, _I thought. _It's all over, girl._

"But I can promise you that Dick and Kory wouldn't have asked me to take you on if they didn't think we needed each other. It's going to be rough; I'll tell you that much right now. So long as we stick together, though, we'll make it through alright. And, you never know—we may just get to know each other along the way, too."

I turned to look at him, and he smiled warmly at me, giving me a wink. I felt a grin break out across my own face, and, suddenly, I found it a whole lot easier to just sit there and enjoy the ride. _This…might not be so bad after all._

**JAIME**

I was never really a part of the Teen Titans before they broke up. I'd been offered membership by several of them, including Robin and Cyborg, but I was still considering taking them up on it when the team disbanded, and everybody went their separate ways. Some of the ex-Titans promised to stay in touch with me. I'd gotten Robin's cell phone number (his _private_ cell phone—a real privilege, I was told, considering not many people were "authorized" to have that number), as well as Wonder Girl, Kid Flash, and Speedy, but, for some reason, I just couldn't bring myself to ever call them, and they didn't seem too interested in taking the initiative and calling me. Believe me, I tried; several times, I'd grab the home phone and get ready to dial one of their numbers, but then I'd just freeze up. There was something inside me, something cold gnawing at my core that whispered, _"Who are you to try and contact them? They're big-name heroes, busy doing their own thing. Do you seriously think they'll have time for an amateur like you? You're nobody, nothing, in their world; you don't belong with them. They don't need you." _And, no matter how much I told myself I ignored that little voice, I still listened to it, even when it said such awful things that I almost began to cry.

But, apparently, I wasn't the only one they didn't need. Don't think I didn't hear about how they'd all pretty much blown Cyborg off when he tried to come around to help them. They were all seemingly convinced that they could handle whatever responsibilities they had at home alone. Perfect evidence, I thought, as to why any contact with me would just be a waste of their time. They'd see it as me trying to get them to team up again, which they obviously didn't want to do. I'd just get the same cold shoulder Cyborg had gotten.

And then there was the controversy over Robin and Green Lantern's fates. Robin had been gone four months, Green Lantern three. People had attempted to reach Batman, but he wouldn't respond. Any hope they had was rapidly fading.

I wanted to help out, with anything and everything I could, but…I just couldn't seem to do anything right. I couldn't control my powers; I couldn't even work my suit on my own. I'd just get in the way more often than not, so I stayed in El Paso where I couldn't cause too much trouble by being stupid with my armor.

I had to wonder if the others had gone through this much drama when they first started out, being new teen heroes trying to make adjustments to a new world. It was funny how much bigger everything seemed when I knew what _really _went on out there.

On one of my sadder days, I got a visit from a friend: Booster Gold. This guy, while admittedly kind of self-centered and…okay, a bit of an imbecile at times, seemed genuine, like he really, truly wanted to be there for me. When he said that he saw something special in me, I knew he meant it with his whole heart. I knew he seriously thought that I could be a good hero, and I appreciated and respected his honesty. It was a welcome sight, seeing him outside my door that morning.

I let him come in, shutting the door tightly behind him. "So, Booster, what's up?" I asked conversationally, trying to be as casual as possible.

"Um, actually, it was about…the Titans," he replied, almost tentatively, as if he was afraid I'd get mad or something.

"Okay…what about the Titans?"

Booster motioned for me to sit down on the couch, and I obediently flopped onto the cushions next to him. He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Skeets seemed oddly quiet, as if the robot knew that whatever Booster was going to say, he had to say it by himself. Finally, he told me, "Look, Jaime…I know you were looking forward to joining the Titans, and I know they just kind of separated without really giving much thought to that. I know you must feel awful about it."

I shrugged. "I'm okay," I replied, somewhat honestly.

Booster gave me a look that was some kind of a cross between a grimace and a scowl. "I don't think that's true. C'mon, you had to have felt _something_, right? It's okay to tell me."

I stared down at my lap, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. I figured it was no use trying to lie to a guy who could look me up in a history book and figure out the story anyway, so I decided on the truth. "Yeah, okay. I was…a little upset." He gave me that look again. "Okay, fine, I was a lot upset. I just—I'd wanted to be on the same team with those guys, you know? I wanted to be able to learn from the best of the teen heroes out there. Robin, Superboy, Kid Flash, Wonder Girl, they're the pros. I was so looking forward to being able to fight alongside them and make friends who wouldn't think I was a total freak. And now…" I threw my hands up in the air to demonstrate my hopelessness. "Now, what am I supposed to do? Besides, it's not like any of them would really want me around, anyway, if they won't accept help from a guy like Cyborg."

Booster nodded his understanding, stretching out the awkward pause for about five minutes before speaking again. "Like I said, I know you feel awful, but I just came to tell you not to give up. There are still heroes out there, people like you that are willing to teach you the things you need to know to survive. All you have to do is reach out to the League, and they'll set you up. You're not alone in this, Jaime. We don't expect you to train yourself to use your powers alone; we're willing to help you if you let us."

That struck a nerve, and I could feel my heart and spirits lifting themselves up out of the shadows of despair and into the light of hope. Maybe it wasn't too late to learn something from a pro. "Thanks, Booster," I said, letting my appreciation come out in my voice.

"You're welcome, kid," he assured me with a smile, clapping me on the back once and standing up, stretching. "Well, I better get back to work. People to save, cities to secure, and all that, you know."

"Yeah, I know." He began to walk toward the door, Skeets floating close by his shoulder, but they both stopped when I called out, "Booster?"

He turned back toward me. "Yes?"

The words stuck in my throat, but I forced them out. "Do…do we make it out of this? Me and the ex-Titans, I mean. Does everything work out okay for us all?"

Booster glanced at Skeets, uncertainly. He looked dismayed that I'd asked the question, and he answered hesitantly. "In a sense, yeah, but…watch your back, Jaime. Sometimes, people aren't always who they say they are." There was a dark, serious expression on his face, which made me hate that he knew things about my life that I didn't know. Then, the smile was back, and he was waving goodbye as he glided out the door, shutting it behind him. I turned my gaze and attention to the sleek black communicator resting on the coffee table, the JLA insignia printed on it. I cocked my head, thinking about the endless possibilities that could come for me out of one simple call. Yeah. Things were definitely looking up for me.

**TIM**

Just as they promised, right after my first kill, I was taken off to a private cell, a more spacious one with a comfortable bed complete with sheets and a pillow and its own little closed-off bathroom. I was told that I was now to gain access to special privileges, such as showers, food, and sleep. I was attended by guards at all times, not unlike the General. That first hour, after I killed for the first time, they led me to the showers for the soldiers and had me get in one. I stood stock-still under the water for twenty minutes, until it was ice cold, and then washed up. It took another fifteen minutes to scrub the dirt, grit, and grime off my skin. Afterwards, I was taken back to my room, where there was a full meal waiting for me, all for me to eat.

I sat at the table, not moving, staring at the food before me in a daze. I was literally starving, and it smelled so good. And it wasn't just bread and water, like it had been for four months in that cramped little cell with the others, but tender meat, steaming vegetables, and delicious-looking cherry pie, served with ice water and—I think—a small glass of vodka. It might not be much compared to what General could eat in his position, but it was meal fit for a king to a prisoner who'd been deprived of food like that for a long time. It was so tantalizing that I wanted to consume it all, every last bite. But I couldn't bring myself to do it; instead, I just…stared at it, unable to eat any of it. Why? Because it was food that I'd only gotten because I'd murdered four innocent people. Three of them had been my teammates, people I was supposed to protect, but I hadn't protected them like I should've. And now, Scarlett was dead. And worse, I'd killed her. Me. I had done that to somebody I'd loved, even for just a short time. She had paid the price for my weakness with her life, and I didn't think I could ever forgive myself for that.

I can't remember how they got me to kill again. No, actually, scratch that, I can. I was yet again herded into the little room with four new prisoners, four men older than I was who looked like they were about to fall over dead at any moment, anyway. General stood behind me, leaning over me, and murmured into my ear, "Look at them. They are weak. They are ill. They are useless. These men can do nothing, can be nothing to us. And they are so thin, so hungry and cold and tired. Do you see how they suffer?" Then he got closer, whispering, "Their suffering will never end on this earth, in this life. You can end it for them. These men do not require anything but mercy, now. Deliver them mercy, my boy." He pressed the gun into my hand, and then…thinking about it in that way, seeing those men in that way, it wasn't so hard to kill them.

That was also how they got me to eat, I think. Because I'd rationalized, told myself that I was doing those poor prisoners a favor by killing them, it wasn't very difficult for me to eat my meal. I had to choke it down, nonetheless, though.

At each session, then, General would tell me a new story to coax me into killing people; because that was the only way he could get me to do it, there for a while. He would always list offenses done by them or against them, saying they were going to die soon, anyway, or they were criminals who'd killed their own fellow prisoners in the camp. I questioned the stories, sometimes, wondered if they were really true or not. But it didn't matter, because the more I heard of it all, the less inclined I became to allow them to live. Especially the ones that they brought in who were there because they had started fights or tried to hurt somebody, because every time they brought those people in, all I saw were the villains I'd fought for three years as Robin, villains that, time and again, I would secretly think to myself, shouldn't be allowed to live. These people were no different than them. Neither was I, come to think of it, but nobody could lay a hand on me, because if I didn't kill them, General's men would. Soon enough, I started to view the world less through the eyes of Tim Drake, less through the eyes of Robin, and more through the eyes of General. I knew the bigger plan of this prison camp, the things they were preparing all of us to do for them, _with _them, and I knew the dangers of having the weak, the unruly, and the disobedient in the works. Soon enough, General didn't even have to say specifically what they did; he just had to tell me they were a liability, and I'd deliver swift punishment.

We could not afford any liabilities in our operation.

The kills racked up in my favor, day after day, week after week. Every day blurred with the next and the previous, running together, mingling with the blood of every person I'd dealt a fatal blow to through my gun. Through it all, though, there was one little part of me that constantly chastised my actions, chiding me: _What the hell do you think you're doing out here? You're a hero, Drake. You don't kill people—ever. Period. _As right as the little voice (probably my conscience) was, it was contradicted by the other little voice, the one that reminded me of the food that I would have, the hot showers and the warm bed that I could enjoy if I killed for General, and the price of uncooperativeness at this point. Every time I was taken for a session, they would silently battle it out inside of me. But every time, every session, my right hand would always level itself in between somebody's eyes, the index finger would squeeze the trigger. My conscience always lost. And around the sixth month, it became easier to suppress, easier to shut out. It was "every-man-for-himself" out there. I had to ensure my own survival, whatever the cost, and unfortunately, my survival came at the expense of that of others. Maybe I was a monster, or maybe I'd given in too quickly, too early. Maybe I wasn't as brave and pure as they'd all thought. Me, on the other hand, I preferred to think that I was just adapting to my environment.

I thought about that one night as I lay in my bed, trying to fall asleep. _I'm just adapting, _I told myself for the hundredth time, _just like what Batman would want me to do. _Then, for the first time in a long time, I cracked a smile. Things weren't as bad off for me as they seemed, after all.

**Author's Note: Okay, sorry about the crappy chapter I uploaded last night. I was kind of in a hurry to get it done. Just wanted you guys to know, updates on all my stories, not just this one, may be few and far between for a while. Life's getting kind of crazy right now and I have less time to get on and write. Oh, well. I'll do my best to keep it coming!**


	7. One Year Later

**CONNER**

Before I knew it, a full year had passed after the Crisis and the things we'd lost in its aftermath. I was watching the city of Metropolis, as well as my little-town home in Smallville, change around me. Things got faster, technology evolved as always, but the streets got meaner the more that the times moved on. It seemed like I was working non-stop to keep people safe, going round the clock to make sure that nothing bad happened to anybody that I could prevent. So, of course, who showed up right when the world seemed to need him the most?

That's right—Superman.

I know I should've been grateful that Clark didn't quit on us, that he hadn't decided that being away from the cape and costume was the right path for him and retired too early. I know I should've been glad that he'd come back to help us all out and work for the greater good, like he'd always done in the past. That was what I _should've _felt, but I didn't feel any of that. Instead, I felt betrayed, offended, that Clark had left me on my own. He had just packed his bags, grabbed Lois, and taken off, with little more than a goodbye before he was gone. I realize that it was my choice to stay behind, but he could've at least given me some way to contact him if I needed his aid. But, no, we can't interrupt Superman's little vacation to tell him that his protégé, his _son_, for crying out loud, is in danger of overload on crime-stopping and could use a little assistance. We've got to wait until he's despairing over how he's going to protect two places at once and then swoop in like an angel sent straight from heaven, playing savior all over again. Sounds bitter, doesn't it? Well, that was what happened. He just floated down right in the middle of the city one day, dramatic as ever, and everybody welcomed him back with open arms.

That was probably because he's, like, _the _archetypal superhero, the "welcoming-him-back-with-open-arms" thing. But it still made me mad. Clark had deserted us all, abandoned us for a full year, and left me to try and handle the horrors Metropolis has to offer, not to mention the somewhat smaller crimes of Smallville (you'd be surprised what people come up with there), on my own. And then, when he finally returns, it's like, "Sorry, Superboy, you've done well, but we prefer Superman to you. He's the _real _thing." Nobody ever said it, but I could feel that they were thinking it, and it made my blood boil.

It might've just been the Luthor in me, making my temper flare up like that. If there's one thing I got from him, it's that animal rage that sparks into a burning flame so fast that you don't realize it until you're throttling somebody because of it. Let me tell you, I felt every minute of it when Clark returned. It wasn't really that he stole the spotlight from me, not really. It was just how quickly everybody pushed me aside in favor of him. Didn't my good works count as much as his did? Wasn't I just as much, if not more, of a hero as him? Apparently, I wasn't, not in the eyes of the people of Metropolis.

I still worked with Clark after that, but nowhere near as much as before. My year alone had taught me so much more about survival than he could've ever done, and so much more than he had when he was actually teaching me and not avoiding me or treating me like I was five years old. The way I saw it, I didn't have to be under his guard all the time, not when I could take perfect care of myself. Superman didn't need Superboy, so, now, Superboy didn't need Superman, either.

As if that weren't enough to rattle the cage for me, I was going through some strain with Cassie in our relationship. She was going through a similar rough time with Wonder Woman, but she didn't want to talk about it. She said she could handle it by herself, which I blatantly told her I thought was a load of crap. She needed somebody to unload on just as much as I did, but she wouldn't come to me about it, and if we couldn't go to each other, then was there anybody we could turn to? Needless to say, Cassie did not appreciate my remark, and she decided to give me the cold shoulder until I apologized or her impatience with me blew over, whichever came first. So, I found myself without a "father-figure" or a girlfriend to talk to, and it was too weird to go to Ma and Pa Kent, nice people though they were. And my best friend, who I would've normally gone to in this situation, anyway, was currently missing in action—literally. So, I was totally and completely alone in the world.

Or, so I thought, anyway.

It was a cloudy day, a cold front blowing in and a thunderstorm on the way. I was sitting in the park in Metropolis, brooding, all by myself except for the howl of the wind in my ears. Brooding made me think of Batman, which made me think of Tim, which made me think of the others, which made me brood even harder. Suddenly, I heard a new heartbeat enter the park, and quick, confident footsteps approaching me. A bald man in a long, black coat walked over and sat next to me on the park bench. I sat up a little straighter, swallowed nervously, when I recognized who it was. _Oh, please, no, not him, not now. Please, don't make this be real._

"Hello, Conner," Lex Luthor greeted me congenially. "I think it's time we had a talk, son."

**CASSIE**

Diana's return as Wonder Woman should've made me happy. I should've been relieved that she was back to help me, but I wasn't, because she'd left me in the first place. She gave me a choice, yeah, but when it came down to it, I couldn't leave the people I was supposed to protect just because of the Crisis. The memories of it hadn't faded with time, not the way they're supposed to, but all the sharp edges had dulled from bouncing off my nerves so many times in twelve months. I guess nobody really was satisfied with my hero work, since they just shoved me aside for Wonder Woman when she came back. It was humbling, at first, remembering that I wasn't always going to be the best of the best, that there was always going to be somebody who was better than me. Then, though, afterwards, it just majorly ticked me off to see her basking in the glory of their praises while I was left on the sidelines, yet again.

Conner wasn't helping the anguish any. A boyfriend is supposed to make you feel better, supposed to let you cry on his shoulder, not turn it all around so it's all about him again. He was trying to relate to me, I guess, trying to show me that I wasn't alone, but he sucked at it. All that came across to me was that he thought I was weak and that I needed to be held up by petty sentiments and empty consolations. He said the same thing was happening to him with Clark, but he never gave me a chance to point out what was different. _"_Your _mentor wasn't a murderer," _I'd wanted to say. _"_Your _mentor didn't string you along, make you believe you were defending a legacy that was long gone too long ago." _But I couldn't say it, because he wouldn't shut up long enough to let me. I wasn't going to sit there and let him wallow in self-pity. I couldn't torture myself like that, listening to a conversation that I could never get a word in on. So, I decided that I had to keep away from him, at least for a while, just until I'd cooled off enough that I could handle his attitude again. It's harder to date Supermen than you might think.

Maybe it was childish of me, but I shunned Wonder Woman after that. I refused to work with her when she wanted to team up, because I had no time to play sidekick anymore. I'd become my own hero, regardless of the name I bore. "Wonder Girl" may have been known as Wonder Woman's protégé, but that didn't mean she had to be. And besides, I could look after myself; I didn't need her hanging over my shoulder, watching me like a hawk every minute, every second of every mission, every day. And that wasn't all. After her return, there was no more Diana, no more Cassie, when we met up occasionally. There was only Wonder Woman and Wonder Girl, a professional, working relationship between us, and nothing more.

It was times like these when I wished the Titans were still together. It'd give me a place to go to, a place to stay, when nobody else would take me. Then, I had to firmly remind myself that Amazons don't run away from their duties. Unlike Wonder Woman, I was unable to shirk my responsibilities to the people of my city, and I would stand by them to the last, whether they liked it or not.

Nothing became more important than my hero work. Before I knew it, my grades in school were slipping, and I was getting into more fights with my mom. I could've gone to Mom about it all, I know, but she wouldn't understand what it was like to be cast aside for someone else, someone better. Or, maybe, she would. After all, wasn't that what Zeus had done to her when he left her with me? _"It was a one-night thing, honey, and you're gorgeous and all, but that woman over there is even prettier than you, and I've got to go chase her down." _Yeah, some dad I had, huh?

I found myself wishing that I could get somebody to talk to, anybody. I knew I had to keep going down my path, the path I'd chosen for myself, but I was sick of the self-imposed exile. I wanted someone there with me to help me and guide me, somebody to look to for assistance that would actually deliver when I needed them most.

That was why I wasn't too indignant or surprised when I saw the helm in the mirror one morning. The man with the golden-blond hair and pale blue eyes was familiar to me, and he was all I had of a real family. I still remember that day with perfect clarity. "Cassandra," he said to me in that silky, alluring voice. "I see you're on your own, yet again. I still need a champion, you know, and I never abandon my champions."

"I know, Ares," I answered evenly. "And I'm ready to take you up on your offer."

**TIM**

I became used to the idea, after a full year had gone by, that General was judge and jury, and I was the executioner. I really had no choice but to comply if I wanted to survive the horrors of the prison camp, because not even General's own soldiers were safe from the punishment for disobedience. I had seen ten Markovian troops executed for similar offenses, three of them Special Forces, and it only served to reinforce the idea that the supreme law of the land was to do as you were told or risk death. I, for one, wasn't much of a risk-taker, and I'd resolved to never get myself back in the position I'd been in the first four months. Starvation, thirst, sleeplessness, and torture were all memories that were fresh in my mind, memories coated in the sour mucus of pain and discomfort. They were disconcerting memories, and not experiences that I wished to repeat for any reason at all. So, I had to murder for him, and I couldn't let it bother me, because it was the only way to protect myself.

I never saw Hal Jordan again there, while the prisoners were exercising or when it was time to play assassin. I wasn't allowed to know too much of what went on in the camp, for the sake of keeping me submissive, so I had no way to know if he'd been executed or if he'd agreed to General's terms. My guess was that they were still working on him, trying to break him down. The sad thing was I used to think, _Good luck with that_, but now, I only thought, _I'll see him out here with me eventually._ But I didn't. In fact, I can't remember seeing him again the entire duration of my stay in Vlatava. Maybe one of the other Green Lanterns had come for him, or maybe he'd gotten lucky, found his ring, and escaped on his own. I never really found out, and to this day, I still don't want to. It just didn't interest me anymore.

When I became General's pet killer, one of the special privileges that I received was a calendar hung up on the wall of my room. I was happy that I had that to use, because it was getting harder and harder every day to track the actual date using the sunrises and sunsets, especially since, half the time, I'd been so hungry and tired that I couldn't remember what day I'd thought it was yesterday. Not knowing the date for certain made me feel…ignorant, somehow, or unaware of my surroundings, and I didn't like that feeling, so I made sure that I always knew what the exact date was. Not only for that purpose, but also because it helped to ground me, to keep me from totally losing my mind. But I never told anyone when I celebrated my seventeenth birthday, because birthdays weren't a part of the plan. Nobody would care about it, anyway, because it had no impact on the greater scheme.

The greater scheme was something I'd been working on uncovering since day one. Back when I was uncooperative, General had once said that we'd all be "inducted into the Markovian Special Forces Unit." That was the plan—on the surface, at least. By this point, one year later, I was able to take a better look around the camp and pick up on things I'd missed before, details that had been driven from my mind by the torture inflicted upon me. Veteran's team hadn't been the only ones captured. There were large quantities of men, women, and sometimes even children that were carted in every month, adding to the vast amounts of prisoners already in the camp. Sometimes, they were soldiers, trained and armed, but other times, they were just frightened civilians. For all I knew, the war was still raging. It made sense that General would want as many troops as possible fighting for him. That explained why people were packed in there tighter than sardines in a can.

General was smart, though. He knew he couldn't use _all _of us. So, that was why he herded other prisoners, the weak and the wild, into sessions with the ones he thought had potential. Some prisoners would undoubtedly make it to Special Forces. Others were there to contribute to their "training". He needed hardened killers for his soldiers, people who could cut down another person without batting an eye. The ones that wouldn't make the cut for the MSF Unit would be used to mold the others into killing machines. And then, of course, if one of us turned out to be a disappointment, if someone deserted or turned back at the last minute, they could pull someone _else_ from the huge groups of people they crammed into the prison camp to take their place, a spare tire, if you will, or a replacement. If there was one thing I'd learned the hard way, it was that there were no irreplaceable troops. _Everybody _was expendable here, including General himself.

So, then, if he needed such a large Special Forces Unit, his target couldn't be such a small country as Vlatava. There would be no way. If he turned everyone in the camp (which he wouldn't, but this puts it into perspective), he'd have the equivalent of a sixth of the Vlatavan army already, not to mention the normal soldiers he'd pull into the fighting. No, Vlatava was not the target of the mission. But if that was true, then…then what was his target?

It was at that point that I decided that I couldn't stay anymore. I had to do something to stop this. I couldn't just sit around and wait to get plucked out of it by the hand of some savior, whoever it might be. I had to make better times for myself. So, I began to plan the grand escape of all new recruits for the Markovian Special Forces Unit.


	8. Breaking Out

**TIM**

It took another year of preparations, just because I made sure that I was as cautious as possible. I really had no choice but to be so careful, because one wrong move could unravel everything, could bring it all tumbling down. And then, if I failed, well…I'd get to see, first-hand, what happened to all those inmates who went for the meetings you don't come back from. I knew enough from two years of being trapped in that camp that those people, the ones who never returned, only ever had any kind of one-sided conversation with the barrel of a gun. Call me a coward, if you want, but I wasn't willing to die to gain my freedom, not in that sense of the word. If I had been, I would've committed suicide long before that point.

Anyway, once everything was all planned out and ready to go, all I had left to do was to discreetly recruit my own Special Forces Unit. It wasn't actually as difficult as it sounds or as I thought it would've been. With the scores of people packed into the camp, and all the newer ones, too, it wasn't too hard to find somebody willing to put up a fight. I found them easiest in the civilians who came from well-to-do backgrounds, the ones who had never suffered, never struggled to stay alive like this before, who had their first taste of true pain the moment that the softness began to fade from their bodies, replaced by sharp angles and hunger. Those people, they almost always said yes. And the ones who'd been there for a while, even the ones who refused, knew better than to betray me to General or to his men. I wasn't the worst of the killers, but I had a reputation for ruthlessness, and I disliked liabilities. Eliminating indiscretions was my specialty, and nobody wanted the first-hand experience of the people who'd crossed me in the past year and five-sixths or so.

Word got around surprisingly fast in the camp, and it started to get easier and easier to find recruits for my army. Everybody, even the ones who'd barely been there a month, had already seen enough for their tastes. They were tired of being pushed around, tired of being treated like animals. They'd give _anything_ to get back at their captors, maybe even their lives.

Was I exploiting that? Maybe, but the odds of all of them dying were slim. Besides, we were about to wage a war here. A short war, yes, and perhaps an irrational one, but the bottom line was that we'd still be going into battle, and, like it or not, battles produce casualties. But, hey, the good news was that, for as many of us rebels who died, there would be even more soldiers who died.

The day that we made our move was not a beautiful day, like it always is in the movies. Hollywood wants you to think that revolutions always happen on the gorgeous, sunny days with clear, blue skies and not a cloud for miles around, almost like Heaven's smiles and blessings pouring down on the rebels to sanction their mission. No, ours took place on the gloomiest, most overcast day since I arrived there, with biting winds that blew dust into our faces and clouds thicker and grayer than I'd ever seen, even in Gotham. Maybe it was Heaven's way of saying that we weren't doing this right. Thinking about it now, it'd make sense, because where I ended up can all be traced back to that day. But, at the time, I paid no attention to the clouds, to the impending rain and inevitably dreary outlook of the people. It was _our _day, _our _time, and we'd show those Markovian sons-of-you-know-what's that messing with us was a big mistake.

I spread the sign around the camp, starting with the older, wiser prisoners. It was simple, just eye contact to get their attention and two fingers out on the right fist as I walked by, but it was effective. And it turned out for the better that I started out with the ones who'd been there longest. They were able to keep the newer POWs in line, keep them from jumping the gun and ruining the whole operation. We couldn't afford any mistakes that day, not with our freedom—our _survival_—at stake the way it was.

When the time was right, around midday, as the clouds began to thicken even more over the woods and threaten the biggest storm we'd seen yet in two years, I used the little bit of command that I kept over General's soldiers to make them round up every prisoner in the camp and bring them into the prison courtyard. I remembered the day I met Hal there, when he'd said he didn't think we could get out on our own. For the most part, he'd been right, but that didn't mean we couldn't set it in motion ourselves, right?

The prisoners were herded out into the courtyard and crammed into it in a teeming mass of dirty, hungry, wounded people. Standing out in front of them, I swept my eyes over my army one last time. To anyone else, it wouldn't have seemed like much; in fact, it might've seemed like a wasted effort, a fool's dream. But me, I saw the potential in choosing them over the strong, professional, well-trained Markovian army soldiers. They possessed an unfathomable rage, a terrifying anger, at being caged and beaten and run about like common beasts. They were livid over the fact that they had been denied basic rights and freedoms, that their human dignity had not been respected. And, played in just the right way, it could be turned into a great weapon for us. I was banking on that.

Soldiers flanked the array of wretched men and women on all sides, armed with guns that were dwarfed by their muscular, well-fed frames. General emerged from the prison building and stalked onto his vantage point atop the hill on which the main complex had been built, so that he could look down over all of us. His face was flushed red with anger, and he seemed to be having a hard time giving voice to his fury. "What—what is this—this _parade_?" he sputtered indignantly. "Why have the prisoners been brought forth here?"

"It's about time things changed around here," I called up to him. "And I can assure you, everyone here feels the same way, General."

General snorted out a laugh, as if he couldn't believe I was brave enough (or stupid enough) to try this. "Are you trying to tell me that we are 'under new management?'" he scoffed mockingly, sounding like he was quoting a film he hadn't liked very much. I could only think of one way to put it for him.

"Actually, I'm telling you that the inmates are running the asylum."

Four simultaneous occurrences registered in my mind in about four separate seconds. Understanding flashed across General's face, quickly followed by fury. I whirled around to face the crowd. I screamed out, _"Move!"_ And the fatigue and fear and pain vanished from the eyes of the prisoners, instantaneously replaced by bloodlust and courage and wrath, and the multitude of sorry-looking people was almost magically transformed into a ragged militia. They attacked with ferocity, pouncing on the unsuspecting soldiers so fast that they had no time to find a grip on the triggers of their guns, no time to fire into the rebellious mass of people formerly under their harsh rule. I fought with them, recalling with surprisingly little trouble the training that I'd barely used in two years, Batman's training. Of course, I had to beef it up a little, make it a little less easy on the soldiers. They deserved it, anyway. After the terrible things they'd done to all of us, they needed to know what it felt like to get beaten up so much your tears taste like blood.

At some point, I turned my attention back up to the hill and saw that General was creeping away to the main complex of the prison. My vision went red, and I tore after him without even a backward glance at the triumphant POWs behind me.

Before I could reach the complex, though, I was knocked to the ground by a sudden gust of the most powerful wind I'd ever felt. I sprawled on the hard dirt, rolling to my left and coming up in a defensive position—only to see a huge, U.S. military-issue shuttle touching down on the prison grounds. Dozens of U.S. soldiers poured out of it when it opened up, and I could only think of one explanation: Bruce. Bruce was back, he'd come back, and he'd done all the work he could to find me and bring me back home. I should've been happy, gratified, even, but I was upset beyond words. This was supposed to be _my _rescue mission. I had things under control here. _We _had things under control here. Looking around, the prisoners were overpowering the Markovians by sheer brute force alone, and doing it much better than the military men could. We didn't _need _their help. I didn't _want _their help at all.

They swarmed from their shuttle like ants from an anthill, toting wicked-looking weapons and clad in protective body armor. They shouted and shot and battled with all their might to protect the prisoners who didn't need their protection anymore. But, thankfully, none of them seemed to see me. So, I picked myself up and raced into the main complex.

The building had been almost completely darkened, so that I could hardly see where I was going. The only illumination in the halls came from the auxiliary lights position at every fourth fixture going down the expanse of the hallway, and all they showed me was a line of closed doors on either side. General could be in any one of those rooms, and he was armed at all times. I drew my own gun, stealthily sliding another round into the magazine to fill it up, and held it at the ready position at my side. I advanced slowly down the hall, my footsteps barely making any sound at all on the tiled floors. I glanced in the windows of the doors, searching the shadowy rooms for General, but I couldn't see inside them very well, and it bothered me that I was both literally and figuratively left in the dark.

Then, I heard it.

It was a slight sound, a sound nobody else probably would've noticed. In fact, it was so quiet that I questioned, at first, whether I'd really heard it or not, but given the circumstances, I didn't have the luxury of telling myself I was hearing things. It came from around the corner to my right, and it was the sound of a hand attempting to muffle a pistol cocking.

I was on General faster than either of us realized. The butt of my TZ99 smacked across his temple, stunning him, and then I'd holstered it and had him pinned up against the wall, holding his gun hand in the air. He let the pistol drop, and its dead weight fell hard on my shoulder, sending a brief, shooting pain up my arm that was enough to make me release my grip on him. His knuckles slammed across my jaw, knocking me down to one knee, as thunder boomed overhead. The sound of a downpour filtered into the main complex, and, as I righted myself, I realized that General was heading out into it.

Seething, I darted out after him, disregarding the rain that pelted the entire place, leaking into my eyes and soaking the dirt beneath my pounding feet, turning it slippery. Lightning flashed in the sky, temporarily filling my vision with bright white flashes. I didn't heed any of it. All I saw was red, the red of General's blood, the blood I so badly wanted to draw. I gained on him surprisingly fast and wrapped an arm around his waist, dragging him down to the ground with all my strength. We grappled there on the ground behind the main complex, struggling to keep our balance on the slick, slimy earth. Mud stained our clothes and cloyed our skin, making us into brawling brown monsters. A few moments of the fight reached my conscious memory.

General punched me in the face hard enough to give me a black eye on the spot.

I knocked his feet out from under him.

He sprang up again.

And then, I somehow had him backed up against the wall of the main complex, my gun drawn and ready to fire, and it was aimed right between his eyes.

For reasons that even I didn't understand, I hesitated. This man had made me into a murderer. He had cost me everything I believed in, everything I was. He had made me kill the one person I had felt the most for in this camp. He deserved whatever fate he got…didn't he?

General began to chuckle. "I see you have a predicament, my young friend," he said breathlessly. "You can kill me, and have your revenge, but then you go back home tainted, an assassin. Or, you can surrender me to the so-called 'justice system', and see me prosecuted for my crimes, but you will never have the satisfaction of feeling my blood on your hands. So, what will you do? What are you willing to sacrifice for your beliefs?"

I shouldn't have listened to him, I told myself. I shouldn't have let him talk me into stalling. But, despite my hatred for him, I couldn't ignore the power—and the truth—his words held. I could cut loose, but I'd become no better than him. I could hold back, but then I'd never be able to forgive myself for not avenging the deaths of those people, the death of Scarlett. Then, another thought entered my mind, a much more…savory thought. And I liked it, so I ran with it.

I feigned dropping my guard and let my gun come down a fraction of an inch so that it was no longer pointing at his face. "No," I decided, "I'm not going to kill you." Relief intertwined with disappointment flitted across General's face.

"I'm going to make you suffer!" I announced, pistol-whipping him again. He fell to his knees, and I kicked him in the back to knock him all the way down, continuing, "Just like you made _me _suffer!"

I kept him pinned there, his arms crushed up underneath him, with my foot pressing down hard into his back. I leveled my gun at him once more. "You think death is vengeance. Well, I say _death is mercy_!"

The report of the TZ99 echoed around us, making my ears ring without any earplugs or other sort of protection for them. General screamed as the bullet cut through skin and muscle in his shoulder and began to writhe in pain, but I stepped down on him harder, and he went still. I cocked the gun again and repositioned it, firing into his other shoulder. "You think you're the devil!" I declared, almost accused.

Another shot, this one just beneath the first.

"You think you run the closest thing to hell you can find here on earth!"

Another shot, just to the left of the second.

"But you don't know what hell feels like until you've survived me!"

I shoved the TZ99 into its holster and knelt on General's back, ignoring the red-washed mud and rainwater that stained my pants. Rage taking over, I wrapped a hand around his throat, squeezing as hard as I could, at the same time that I shoved his face into the ground, smothering him, choking him. "So, congratulations, _General_," I spat, close to his ear. "You get to experience first-hand the monster you've created here."

"That's enough."

The voice, deep and soft, startled me, and for what felt like the thousandth time that day, I redrew my gun, twisted around, and had it pointed at the unwanted guest. The man was tall, at least six feet, and clothed in black body armor with a black cape and cowl draped over his form to conceal—and protect—him. Instinctively, I knew the gear was heavy, and he must've been sweltering in the midsummer heat of the forest, but he gave no sign of feeling any discomfort whatsoever. It wasn't that I didn't recognize him, or that I didn't remember him, because I did; it was just that the heat of the moment, my own ferocity, it had consumed my mind. My entire reality was my wrath, and I didn't want him to get in the way of it.

"_Get. Back," _I ordered, my voice filled with venom.

Batman didn't seem perturbed or even affected at all by the very real threat to his life. It could've just been because of his body armor, but it was probably more because he saw the way I was wavering, the near-imperceptible tremble of my gun hand. I didn't want to shoot him. And he was banking on that.

"Robin," he said gently, "I know you're upset, and I know this is overwhelming for you, but you need to listen to me. I know that they've done horrible things to you, to all of you, but that is no excuse to act like an animal. Think about what you're doing. If you keep going, if you kill this man, are you any better than him?"

I was panting, the tremors in my hand now visible, obvious. But I kept the gun up, and I kept the pressure on General's neck. I was torn, unsure of what to do.

"I'm offering you a chance to come back home, with me. You don't have to be weighed down by any of this, and you most certainly don't have to be alone. I can help you overcome the things they've programmed you to do, the feelings they've been telling you are right. I can help you get your life back to the way it used to be. Come with me, Tim. Don't do this to yourself."

My hand had slipped the gun back into its holster for what I was sure was the final time before I'd even realized it. Slowly, carefully, I climbed off General, who was now unconscious, and stepped closer to Bruce. Wariness radiated from me, because I was almost tempted to think it was all just a dream, but it soon gave way to joy, and I let myself be pulled into my mentor's arms in a hug and comforted. I was dirty, bloody, and sobbing into his chest, perhaps in remorse for what I'd done, what I'd been about to do again. Batman rubbed my back and soothed, "It's okay, Tim, it's okay. You're safe now. You're safe. Everything's going to be just fine."

I knew he meant it. I believed him. And, suddenly, the world felt a lot brighter.


End file.
